UC-NRLF 


SB    ISfl    MM? 


THE   POETICAL  AUH7M ; 


REGISTER 


Jfugtttoe 


BY    AL.ARIC    A.    WATTS. 


See  I  have  culled  the  flower  that  promised  best, 

And  where  iiot  sure— perplexed,  but  pleased— I  guessed 

At  such  as  seemed  the  fairest. 

BYRON. 


BOSTON: 

WELLS  AND  LILLY,— COURT-STREET. 

1828. 


111? 


PREFACE. 


THE  present  collection  will  be  found  to 
contain  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  most 
beautiful  fugitive  poetry  of  the  day ;  se- 
lected from  a  great  variety  of  sources.  It 
differs  in  the  plan  of  its  arrangement  from 
other  volumes  of  the  same  class,  which  have 
preceded  it ;  inasmuch,  as  every  poem  is 
scrupulously  referred  to  the  work  from 
which  it  has  been  derived. 


PREFACE. 


The  delay,  which  has  occurred  in  the 
publication  of  the  Poetical  Album  (it  hav- 
ing been  printed  nearly  four  years)  has  con- 
duced to  defeat  more  than  one  of  the  ob- 
jects contemplated  by  its  Editor.  It  was 
originally  proposed  by  him,  that  no  poem 
should  be  transplanted  into  its  pages,  which 
had  either  appeared,  or  was  likely  to  ap- 
pear among  the  collected  works  of  its 
Author.  He  had  also  intended  that  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  its  contents  should 
have  been  original.  Since  it  was  prepar- 
ed for  the  press,  however,  most  of  the  then 
unpublished  articles  have  from  time  to 
time  crept  into  print,  and  it  can  now  mere- 
ly claim  to  be  regarded  as  a  selection  of  the 
fugitive  gems  of  our  modern  poetical  lite- 
rature. Some  few  of  the  pieces  have  also 
been  republished  by  their  authors  ;  but  of 


PREFACE. 


these  the  number  is  very  insignificant. 
The  greater  part  have  never  before  appear- 
ed in  any  collected  form,  and  (considering 
how  often  good  poetry  is  overlooked  in  the 
columns  of  magazines  and  newspapers) 
may  be  pronounced,  to  apply  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge's phrase,  "  almost  as  good  as  manu- 
script." 

The  work  has  been  printed  in  a  small, 
though  clear  type,  with  a  view  to  compres- 
sion ;  and  will  be  found  to  contain  a  much 
larger  quantity  of  matter,  than  any  other 
collection  of  the  kind. 

Those  who  may  look  for  fugitive  poetry 
of  merit,  of  a  late  date,  will  be  pleased  to 
remember,  that  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
book  was  committed  to  the  press  as  early 
as  1824.  Why  it  was  not  published  in 


A* 


VI  PREFACE. 

1826,  the  assignees  of  the  estate  of  Messrs. 
Hurst,  Robinson  and  Co.,  in  whose  pos- 
session it  has  remained,  can  best  explain. 

A  second  series  of  the  Poetical  Album, 
comprising  some  of  the  best  fugitive  poe- 
try, which  has  appeared  from  1823  to  the 
present  time,  is  now  preparing  for  publica- 
tion, uniform  with  the  present  volume. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE        .  .  .  .  .  .      iii 

Sketches  taken  from  Dover  Castle  during  a  Storm. 
By  William  Read,  Esq.  :— 

1.  The  Coming  on  of  the  Storm  .       1 

2.  The  Progress  of  the  Storm  .  4 

3.  The  East  Indiatnan  .  .       7 

4.  The  Morning  after  the  Storm  .  14 
Sonnet  on  Parting  with  his  Books.     By  William 

Roscoe,  Esq.        .  .  .  .17 

The  Artist's  Studio.     By  L.  E.  L.     .  .  17 

Sonnet.     By  the  Rev.  W.  Lisle  Bowles  .  .    22 

To  Mont  Blanc  .  .  22 

Ode,  written  for  Recitation  at  the  Farewell  Dinner 
in  Honour  of  John  Kemble,  Esq.     By  Thomas 
Campbell,  Esq.    .  .  .  .25 

The  Last  Tear  ...  28 

Address  to  the  Alabaster  Sarcophagus  deposited 
in  the  British  Museum.     By  Horace  Smith, 
Esq.      .  .  .  .  .28 

To  the  Dying  Year  .  .  .31 

The  Last  Day.     By  William  Beckford,  Esq.  .     40 

The  Hall  of  Eblis.     By  Barry  Cornwall          .  36 

A  Reflection  .  .  .  .40 

Stanzas  written  in  the  Church-yard  of  Richmond 

in  Yorkshire.     By  Herbert  Knowles.        .  38 

Epitaph  on  an  Idiot  Girl  .  .  .95 

The  Mossy  Seat.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.  .  41 

Sonnet.     By  William  Wordsworth,  Esq.  .     42 

A  Farewell  to  England.     By  Joseph  Ritchie,  Esq.     43 
The  Exchange.     By  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Esq.       .  44 

On  Painting.     By  Thomas  Campbell,  Esq.  .     45 

Night.     By  James  Montgomery,  Esq.  .  47 

From  the  Arabic         .  .  .  .48 

Ode  to  France.    By  Lord  Byron      .  .  4i) 


Mil  CONTENTS. 

PACE 

A  Fragment.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .51 

The  Parting.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly        .  52 

Hero  and  Leander.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .     54 

Lines  written  on  the  Field  of  Waterloo  .  58 

A  Farewell.     By  Lord  Byron  .  .     CO 

{Stanzas  addressed   to  a  Lady  on   reading  Romeo 

and  Juliet.     From  the  German  .  61 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poesy.     By  J.  S.  Clarke,  Esq.      .     (>3 
Evening.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  .  65 

The  Kitten.     By  Joanna  Baillie  .  .     66 

Song.     By  William  Smith,  Esq.        .  .  69 

To  the  Rainbow.     By  Thomas  Campbell,  Esq.      .     70 
Comparison          .  .  .  .71 

Sappho.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  .     72 

Sappho's  Song.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  74 

The  Egyptian  Tomb.   By  the  Rev.  W.  Lisle  Bowles     75 
Stanzas  .  .  .  .76 

Helvellyn.     By  Barry  Cornwall  .  .     77 

Inscription  for  a  Village  Spring         .  .  78 

My  Brother's  Grave.     By  the  Rev.  J.  Moultrie      .     79 
On  the  Receipt  of  a  Letter.     By  the  Rev.  George 

Crab  be          .  .  .  .84 

On  a  Child  Playing.     By  Thomas  Doubleday,  Esq.     85 
On  an  old  Engraving  of  a  Nun  .  .     86 

Lord  Byron's  latest  Verses  .  .87 

Sappho.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly       .  .     88 

Lines  written  on  a  first  View  of  Fonthill  Abbey. 

By  the  Rev.  W.  Lisle  Bowles  .  .     89 

A  Sketch.     By  L.  E.  L.     .  .  .  90 

Reproach  me  not        .  .  .  .92 

From  Anacreon  .  .  .93 

The   Burial   of  Sir  John  Moore.       By  the  Rev. 

Charles  Wolfe.  ...  94 

Virgil's  Tomb.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  .     95 

The  Moslem  Bridal  Song.     By  the  Rev.   George 

Croly  .  .  .  .96 

Thermopylae.     By  Lord  Byron         .  .  97 

Belshazzar.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  .    -08 

Withered  Violets.     By  William  Read,  Esq.     .  99 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PA  OR 

The  Dead  Sea.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  .  100 

Song,  written  for  an  Indian  Air.     By  Percy  Bysshe 

Shelley          ...  101 

Stanzas  written  on  the  back  of  a  Letter.     By  Is- 

mael  Fitzadam  .  .  .  102 

A  Drinking  Song.     By  Lord  Byron  .  104 

Epitaph   on  Joseph    Atkinson,  Esq.     By  Thomas 

Moore,  Esq.          ....  105 
A  Recollection.     By  John  Malcolm,  Esq.        .  100 

Inscription  for  a  Bust  of  Tasso,  from    the  Italian 
of  Matthias.     By  the  Venerable  the  Archdea- 
con Wrangham   ....  107 
Richmond  Hill  .  .  .108 

A  Sketch.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  .  ]09 

The  Tournament  .  .  .110 

Epitaph        .  .  .  .  .112 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep.     By  Mrs.  Hemans        113 
Magdalena.     By  II.  A.  Driver,  Esq.  .  114 

Rosalia.     A  Poetical  Sketch.     By  L.  E.  L.  .115 

The  Village  Church.     By  the  Kev.  J.  W.  Cunning- 
ham ....          116 
Address  to  the  Egyptian  Mummy  exhibited  in  Bel- 

zoni's  Exhibition.     By  Horace  Smith,  Esq.         119 
The  Forsaken  Heart  .  .  .121 

Gypsies.     By  the  Rev.  J.  Beresford  .  122 

Impromptu.     By  the  Rev.  C.  C.  Coltori  .  123 

Jemima,  Rose  and  Eleanore.     By  Thomas  Camp- 
bell, Esq.  .  .  .  .124 
Love's  Philosophy.     By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  125 
The  Storm           .                 .                                 .126 
Lines  on  leaving  Landogo,  a  Village  on  the  Banks 

of  the  Wye          .  .  .  .128 

Stanzas  written  on  the  Anniversary  of  the  Birth- 
day of  Robert  Burns.     By  James  Montgome- 
ry, Esq.  ....  129 
Epitaph  on  an  Infant.     By  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Esq.      130 
Mary's  Mount.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.  .  131 
Bellutor  Moriens.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly        .  133 
The  Spirit  of  Poesy            .                .                .134 


CONTENTS. 


.  .  .  .  .135 

A  <  Mmrrh-yard  Scene.     By  Professor  Wilson  136 

A  Grecian  Eden.     Bv  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley          .  138 
Ton  Child.    By  Miss  Baillie  .  .          139 

Viola.    A  Fragment  .  .  .  140 

To  the  Ivy.     By  Mrs.  Hemans          .  •  141 

The  Return  from  India  .  .  .  143 

Son-.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  144 

To  the  Planet  Jupiter.  By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  145 
Stanzas  on  receiving  from  Dr.  Rush  of  Philadel- 
phia, a  piece  of  the  Tree  under  which  Wil- 
liam Penn  signed  his  Treaty  with  the  Indians, 
converted  to  the  purposes  of  an  Inkstand. 
By  William  Roscoe,  Esq.  .  .  146 

Lines  on  a  Skull  .  .  .  147 

The  Ground-Swell.     By  N.  T.  Carrington  .  148 

Mirkwood-Mere.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  149 

A  Prayer.     By  William  Beckford,  Esq.  .  .  150 

The  Contrast.     Written   under  Windsor  Terrace, 

17th   February  1820.     By  Horace  Smith,  Esq.  151 
Fragment  .  .  .  152 

Ballad.     By  Thomas  Pringle,  Esq.  .  .  153 

Lines  written  under  the  Hebe  of  Canova        .  154 

The  Past.     By  Professor  Wilson  .  .  155 

Stanzas.     By  the  Rev.  J.  Moultrie  .  156 

An  Arabian  Song.     By  Barry  Cornwall  .  158 

A  Portrait  from  Real  Life  .  .  159 

Kl  Hypocondriaco.  By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  160 
Written  at  Spithead.  By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  161 
A  Night  Storm  among  the  Mountains  of  Snowdon  162 
Sonnet  composed  on  the  Sea  Coast.  By  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge, Esq.  .  .  .  .164 
A  Country  Wedding  .  .  .  165 
Sonnet  to  Ailsa  Rock.  By  John  Keats  .  166 
To  a  Girl  Thirteen  Years  of  Age  .  .167 
Love.  By  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  Poet  Laureate  .  169 
To  a  Sister.  By  W.  Read,  Esq.  .  .  169 
To  Louisa  ....  170 
The  Painter.  By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  171 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PACK 

Ten  Years  Ago.     By  Alaric  A.  Watts      .  .175 

Lines  sent  with  an  flour  Glass  to   a  Lady  on  New 

Year's  Day.     By  Miss  M.  J.  Jcwsbury  .  177 

The  Covenanter's  Heather  Bed.     By  D.  M.  Moir, 

Esq.       .  .  .  .  .178 

Love      ....  179 

Stanzas  written  by  the  Sea  Shore.     By  Miss  M.  J. 

Jewsbury       .... 
Impromptu  to  Lady  Holland,  on  Napoleon's  Lega- 
cy of  a  Snuff"  Box.     By  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.     181 
The  Dying  Poet's  Farewell        .  .  .182 

Imitation  of  a  Greek  Epigram 

The  Dead  Bird  .  .  .  .184 

Sonnet,  written  in  the  Woods  of  Bolton  Abbey.    By 

Barry  Cornwall  .  .  .185 

The  Last" Man.     By  Thomas  Campbell,  Esq. 
The  Genius  of  Spain.     By  Lord  Holland 
A  Farewell.     By  Ismael  Fitzadam    .  189 

Lines  written  among  the   Ruins  of  Ampthill  Park. 

By  J.  H.  Wiffen,  Esq.  .  .190 

Spanish  Romance.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly       .  191 
The  Vision.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.     .  *.  192 

The  Michaelmas-Daisy  .  .  .  11)3 

Stanzas  written  beneath  a  Picture.     By  Alaric  A. 

Watts  .  .  .  .194 

The  Happy  Isle.     By  L.  E.  L. 

The  Falling  Leaf.     By  James  Montgomery,  Esq.       198 
Song.     By  Josiah  Conder,  Esq.         .  .  199 

To  Lady  Holland,  on  the  Snuff' Box  bequeathed  to 

her  by  Bonaparte.     By  the  Earl  of  Carlisle        200 
Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  the  Poet  Keats     .  .  201 

A  Farewell  ....  202 

Palmyra.     By  John  Malcolm,  Esq.  .  .  203 

Impromptu,  on  the  Blindness  of  Milton  .  204 

Dreams          .  .  .  .  .205 

The  Charm.     From  the  Spanish       .  .          206 

Stanzas         .....  207 
Evening  Thoughts  .  .  .  2»)8 

The  Northern  Star  .  210 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

•  PAOE 

The  Incognita     .  .  .  .211 

To  a  Butterfly  resting  on  a  Skull.     By  Mrs.  He- 

inans  .  .  .  .212 

Where  is  He  ?     By  Henry  Necle,  Esq.     .  .  213 

The  War  of  the  League      .  .  .  214 

Stanzas.     By  Lord  Byron         .  .  .  216 

Reconcilement     ....  217 

The  Lot  of  Thousands.     By  Mrs.  John  Hunter      .  218 
Comparison.     By  R.  B.  Sheridan,  Esq.  .  ib. 

A  Poetical  Sketch       .  .  .  .219 

Sunset  Thoughts.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.          .  221 

There  is  a  Tongue  in  every  Leaf.    By  Miss  Bowles, 

Author  of  "Solitary  Hours"       .  .  222 

From  the  Arabic         ....  223 
Stanzas.     By  Lord  Byron  .  .  224 

Music.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  .  225 

Sonnet  on  Contemplating  the  Miniature  of  a  De- 
ceased Friend       ....  226 
Youth.     By  Miss  M.  J.  Jcwsbury      .  .          227 

A  Farewell  ....  228 

Duty  and  Pleasure.     By  Mrs.  Piozzi  .          229 

Ellen,  a  Fragment.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  230 

Song  of  a    German  Troubadour.     Translated  by 

William  Roscoe,  Esq.          .  .  .  232 

The  Bachelor's  Dream         .  .  .  233 

Time's  Swiftness.     By  the  Hon.  W.  Spencer          .  234 
Lines  written  beneath  the  Bust  of  Shakspeare.     By 

Henry  Neele,  Esq.  .  .  .  235 

Sonnet.     By  Charles  Lamb  .  .  236 

The  Daisy  in  India.     By  James  Montgomery,  Esq.  237 
Silent  Love  ....          238 

The  Cross  of  the  South.     By  Mrs.  Hemans  .  239 

Impromptu,  with  a  White  Rose         .  .  240 

Stanzas.     By  J.  H.  Reynolds,  Esq.  .  .  241 

Epitaph  .  .  .  .242 

The  Banks  of  the  Esk.     By  J.  Richardson,  Esq.     .  243 
Things  to  Come.     By  the  Rev.  George  Croly  244 

Night.     By  E.  Elliott,  Esq.        .  .  .246 

To  his  Daughter.     By  Horace  Smith,  Esq.      .          247 
Stanzas        .  .  .  248 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 


PAGE 

Stanzas.     By  Barry  Cornwall  249 

On  an  Ivy  Leaf  brought  from  the  Tomb  of  Virgil. 

By  Mrs.  Hemans          .  .  .250 

The  Sigh.     By  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Esq.        .  .  251 

The  Fountain.     By  Samuel  Rogers,  Esq.         .  252 

The  Bird  of  Passage  .  253 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Portrait  of  the  unfortunate 
Queen  of  France,  taken  on  the  last  Examina- 
tion previous  to  her  Execution.   By  Mrs.  Hodg- 
son (formerly  Miss  Holford).  .  .  254 
Sonnet                   .                .                 .                .255 

Stanzas  to  an  Old  Friend.     By  Thomas  Double- 
day,  Esq.       ....          256 

An  Arabian  Song.    By  Mrs.  Hemans        .  .  258 

A  Persian  Precept.     By  Herbert  Knowles       .          259 
Song  of  the  Zephyrs    '  .260 

Stanzas  on  Burning  a  Packet  of  Letters  .          261 

Melancholy.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.  .  .  262 

The  Passage  through  the  Desert.     By  John  Mal- 
colm, Esq.  ....  263 

From  Plato.     By  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.  .  268 

The  Broken  Heart      .  .  .  .269 

To  a  Dying  Infant.     By  Miss  Bowles  .          271 

From  the  Greek  of  Julian          .  .  .274 

To  Helen  ....  275 

Song  .  .  .  .  .276 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Sight  of  some  late  Autumn 

Flowers.     By  Miss  Bowles  .  .  277 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Poet  Cowper.    By  Mrs.  John 

Hunter  .  .  .  .278 

Stanzas  on  the  Loss  of  His  Majesty's  Ship,  Saldan- 

hah.     By  Thomas  Sheridan,  Esq.      .  .  279 

An  Apologue.     By  Thomas  Gaspcy,  Esq.        .  281 

Epigram       .  .  .  ...  282 

The  Ship.     By  John  Malcolm,  Esq.  .  283 

Love  :  in  Five  Sonnets.     By  Ismael  Fitzadam        .  284 
Stanzas  for  Music.     By  James  Montgomery,  Esq.     286 
Lines  written  on  the  Platform,  at  fierne.     By  Miss 
Porden  .  287 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Spartan's  March.     By  Mrs.  Hemans  .  289 

Song.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  .          290 

Lines  on  a  Portrait,  supposed  to  be  that  of  Nell 
Gwyn.  By  Sir  Peter  Lely,  in  the  possession  of 
R.  Cracroft,  Esq.  By  Alaric  A.  Watts  .  291 

To  Jessy.     By  Lord  Byron  .  .          293 

The  Nymph  of  the  Stream.     By  Mrs.  John  Hunter  294 
Italy.     A  Fragment  .  .  .          295 

Lines  written  in  the  Bay  of  Naples.     By  Percy  Bys- 

she  Shelley  .  .  .296 

Inscription  for  a  Grotto  near  a  Deep  Stream  .  297 

The  Contrast.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .          298 

Song.     By  L.  E.  L.     .  .  .  .299 

The^Sleeping  Child.    In  two  Sonnets  .  300 

Stanzas.     By  the  Hon.  St.  George  Tucker  .301 

The  Merry  Heart.     By  the  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman        302 
Song.     By  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.  .  .  303 

The  Return.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .          304 

Parting.     By  Ismael  Fitzadam  .  .  306 

The  Battle  of  Roslin.    By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.     .          307 
Epitaph  on  Cowper.     By  Leigh  Hunt      .  .  309 

The  Pythoness.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  .          310 

The  Winter  Rose         .  .  .  .311 

The  Drinking  Song  of  Munich.    By  Thomas  Camp- 
bell, Esq.  .  .  .312 
Lines  written  beneath  the  Head  of  Tyrtaeus.     By 

L.  E.  L.  .  .  .  .  313 

Balak  and  Balaam  .  .  .314 

The  Eye       .  .  .  .  .  316 

The  Cup  of  Circe  .  .  .          317 

Lines  written  in  an  Album.     By  Walter  Paterson, 

Esq 318 

Amor  Patriae  .....       319 

The  White  Horse  of  Wharfdale  320 

On  a  Time-Piece  ornamented  with  a  Bust  of  Thom- 
son .  "  .  .  .322 
Consolation  to  a  Friend  on  the  Loss  of  his  Child       323 
Melrose  Abbey            ....  324 
Marius  among  the  Ruins  of  Carthage               .          325 


CONTENTS.  XV 


PAGE 

Love's  Last  Words.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  328 

Erato.     From  a  Painting,  by  T.  Stothard,  R.A.   By 

L.  E.  L.  .  .  .  .329 

Comparison.     By  Mrs.  John  Hunter  .          330 

The  Caves  of  Yorkshire.  By  William  Wordsworth, 

Esq.     In  Three  Sonnets    .  .  .  331 

Fragment.     By  L.  E.  L.     .  .  .          332 

He  never  Smiled  Again  !     By  Mrs.  Hemans 
Stanzas.     By  Lord  "Byron          .  .  .  334 

Dervvent-Water  and  Skiddaw.    By  Barry  Cornwall  335 
Stanzas  for  Music.     By  L.  E.  L.  .  337 

Stanzas        .  .  .  .  .338 

Epitaph  ....          339 

To  the  Moon.     By  Jane  Taylor  .  .  340 

On  the  Royal  Infant,  still-born,  Nov.  6,  1817.     By 

James  Montgomery,  Esq.  .  .          341 

The  Pluvian  Jupiter.     From  a  Picture,  by  Gandy. 

By  Barry  Cornwall  .  .  .342 

Greece  .  .  .  .343 

Love  .  .  345 

The  Beech  Tree's  Petition.  By  Thomas  Camp- 
bell, Esq.  .  .  .  .346 
Elegy.  By  Charles  A.  Elton,  Esq.  .  347 
Time  .  .  .  .  .348 
Song.  By  Henry  Neele,  Esq.  .  349 
Stanzas  written  in  a  Highland  Glen.  By  Profes- 
sor Wilson  .  .  .  .350 
Celano.  By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  351 
The  Flower  of  Malhamdale  .  .  .352 
Ballad.  By  Mrs.  C.  B.  Wilson  .  .  353 
A  Byronian  Gem  ....  354 
Awake  rny  Love.  By  Allan  Cunningham  .  355 
The  Pirate's  Cave.  By  L.  E.  L.  .  .  356 
The  First  Tear.  By  the  Rev.  R.  Polwhele  357 
The  Widowed  Mother.  By  Professor  Wilson  358 
Stanzas.  By  Barry  Cornwall  .  .  .  359 
Lines  written  by  the  Sea  Side.  By  William  Jer- 
ri an,  Esq.  .  .  .  360 
Comparison  ....  362 


Xvi  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

On  a  New-made  Grave,  near  Bolton  Priory  363 

To  Ida.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.  .  .  365 

The  Moss  Rose.     From  the  German  .          367 

Time  arresting  the  Career  of  Pleasure.  By  L.  E.  L.  368 
The  Spanish  Maiden's  Farewell.     By  Matilda  Be- 
th am  .  .  .  .369 
The  Cairngorm           ....  370 
The  Poet.     By  L.  E.  L.      .                .  .          371 
The  Memory  of  Ida.     By  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq. 
Fragment.     By  L.  E.  L.     .                 .  .          374 
Lines  on  leaving  a  Scene  in  Bavaria.     By  Thomas 

Campbell,  Esq.        .  .  376 

The  Hour-Glass  .  .  .380 

The   Marriage   of  Peleus  and  Thetis.     By  Barry 

Corn  wail  .  .  .  .381 

Moonlight  .  .  .  .385 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady.     By  T.  K.  Hervey,  Esq.  387 

Memory.     By  W.  Leggett,  Esq. 

Napoleon  Moribundus  .  .  .  390 

Notes    .  .  391 


THE   POETICAL   ALBUM. 


SKETCHES 

TAKEN    FROM    DOVER    CASTLE    DURING    A    STOP.M* 
BY    WILLIAM    READ, 


I. 

THE  COMING  ON  OF  THE  STORM. 

Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  \vcil, 

"Within  the  volume  of  v.hir'n  tJM< 

Hours  dreadful,  and  thin:;:-  sore  nigjit 

Hath  trifled  former  knowing*. 

MACBETH. 

THE  sun  went  down  in  splendour  ; — as  lie  went, 

A  crimson  glory  streaked  the  Occident. 

Lingering  like  hope  ;  the  clouds  were  floating,  bright 

As  ruby  islands  in  a  sett  of  light; — - 

Awhile  they  wore  all  hues — then  wavering1,  weak. 

Waned  like  the  blush  that  warms  a  virgin's  cheek, 

Till  all  were  lost.     Then  Twilight  drexv  her  hood, 

Dropped  with  pale  stars  ;  and  scowling  Darkness  stood, 

Like  a  dim  spectre,  on  the  eastern  hill, 

Vestured  in  clouds,  and  lingering  there  until 

His  hour  was  come.     Then  sobbing  gusts  plained  by  ; — 

The  vexed  wave  flung  its  silver  crest  on  high  ; — 

The  sea-gull  shrieked  on  rapid-wheeling  wing  ; — 

The  steed  pricked  up  his  ear,  as  hearkening 


Z  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

To  far,  far  sounds — neighed,  started,  tossed  his  head, 

Then  bounding  off,  gazed  fierce  and  spirited  ; 

The  watch-dog  bayed  ;  the  patient  steer  drew  nigh — 

There  was  a  calm  petition  in  his  eye  ; 

Unsocial  birds  forsook  the  wild   woods  far 

And  pecked  and  fluttered  at  the  lattice  bar: — 

Nought  breathed  untroubled. 

Hark  !  the  ruffian  squalls 

Rock  to  their  base  those  bastion-circled  walls., 
Whose  towery  crown,  by  time  or  siege  unbowed, 
Frowns  on  the  deep,  and  stays  the  passing  cloud. 

How  baleful  dark  !  though  scarce  an  hour  be  gone 

Since,  through  the  bright-edged  rack  that  hurried  on, 

The  Moon  looked  out  unsullied  :  while  I  gazed, 

Athwart  her  path  the  vivid  meteor  blazed; 

And,  as  that  herald  of  the  brooding  gale 

Winged  noiseless  on,  her  crescent  brow  waxed  pale: 

She  heard  the  rebel  deep  disown  her  sway, 

And,  like  offended  Beauty,  turned  away. 

Then  swooped  the  winds  that  hurl  the  giant  oak 

From  Snowdon's  altitude  ; — the  thunder  broke 

In  deep,  percussive,  peals — so  near,  that  earth 

Shook  as  it  threatened  a  volcano's  birth  ; 

And  while  the  angled  lightning  quivered  by 

(Like  types  of  a  celestial  tongue)  the  eye 

Recoiled  within  itself—  oppressed  and  awed — 

As  though  it  saw  the  written  wrath  of  God 

Gleam  on  the  black  and  cloud-leafed  book  of  night, 

In  letters  of  unutterable  light! 

It  seemed  as  Ocean,  weary  of  repose, 

With  all  his  storms,  in  bold  rebellion  rose, 

To  bow  that  Flag,  obeyed  where'er  it  veers, 

Which  braved  their  fury  for  a  thousand  years  ! 

Yet,  Ocean  !  thou  hast  been  our  friend — though  thus 

Convulsed  with  rage,  the  eye  grows  tremulous 

That  gazeth  on  thee  ;  as  might  one,  whose  skill 

Had  wrought  by  spells  some  spirit  to  his  will, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  3 

Start — each  deep  wish  indulged — to  find  it  turn 

In  wrath  upon  himself,  and  fiercely  spurn 

The  bondage  it  had  brooked.     Thy  mighty  arm 

Was  stretched  between  us  and  the  locust-swarrn 

That  made  all  earth  an  Egypt !  Our  ally, 

When  none  beside  was  our's — and  Destiny 

Had  doomed  us  IshmaePs  lot,  opposing  thus 

Our  hand  to  all,  and  every  hand  to  us  ! 

And  thou  hast  borne  us  through — triumphant  borne — 

The  sun  of  glory  spotless  and  unshorn  ! 

Those  days  of  strife — though  not  their  memory — cease, 

And  all,  but  only  thou,  repose  in  peace. 

Alas !  ere  ebbs  this  barrier-trampling  tide, 

The  throb  of  many  a  temple  shall  subside  ; 

And  beating  hearts,  that  sicken  at  thy  roar, 

Be  hushed  to  rest — and  palpitate  no  more  ! 

Now  faint,  and  far,  comes  on  the  wail  of  death — 

Heard  as  the  tempest  seems  to  pause  for  breath  ; 

And  now  the  sheeted  levin  glares  upon 

A  peopled  deck,  that  idly  hopes  to  shun 

Those  ambushed  banks  o'er  which  the  breakers  rave — 

A  crash  ! — a  shriek !     The  ocean  is  their  grave  ! 

Would  that  one  victim  might  appease  the  blast ! 

Ah  no  ! — the  cry  of  death  is  deepening  fast ; 

And  minute-guns,  above  the  surging  swell, 

Boom  on  the  gale  the  Pilot's  passing-bell ! 

And  there  be  some  to  whom  this  morning's  sun 

Revealed  the  cliffs  their  thoughts  had  dwelt  upon 

Through  exiled  years  ;  and  bade,  all  peril  past, 

The  warm  heart  hail  its  native  hills  at  last ! — 

As  fair  to-morrow's  sun  those  hills  may  greet, 

But  then  the  surf  shall  be  their  winding-sheet! 

And  there  be  others  struggling  with  the  spite 

Of  warring  elements,  whose  souls  were  bright 

To  mark,  at  evening's  close,  the  little  space 

Which  but  delayed  Affection's  bland  embrace ; 

And  now  they  roll  the  aching  eye-ball  round 

And  meet  but  death — the  drowning  and  the  drowned: 

Yet  fond,  fair  arms  shall  yield  the  clasp  they  sought — 

Yea,  wildly  clasp— but  they  shall  heed  it  not ! 


POETICAL     ALBUM* 
It 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE  STORM. 

O,  I  have  suffered 

V.'ith  those  that  I  saw  suli-v  !  a  l>: -avi%  vessel, 
\Vho  hafi,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
P.i.-lied  all  to  pieces.      O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart  !     Poor  souls,  they  perished  ! 

TK  M  PEST, 

ITow  many  now  are  pondering1  o'er  the  lot 

Of  friends  afar  ! — Unthought  of,  half  forgot, 

Till  this  com  passion -waking  moment  brings 

Their  image  back,  with  all  their  sufferings! 

The  haughty  maid  recalls  the  youth  she  drove 

To  seek  a  grave  for  ill-requited  love — 

Sees  all  the  worth  she  would  not  see  before, 

And  bears  in  turn  the  agonies  he  bore. 

A  Father  brings  the  outcast  boy  to  mind 

His  sternness  forced  to  brave  the  waves  and  wind  ; 

Alas,  too  late,  compunction  wrings  his  breast, — 

His  child  hath  rested — where  the  weary  rest! 

Yes,  though  while  present  those  we  loved  might  err 

In  many  actions — though  the  mind  prefer 

A  stranger  at  the  moment,  for  some  boon 

Of  nature,  chance,  or  art,  which  falls  in  tune 

With  passing  whim — yet,  like  the  butterfly 

(Whose  wings  grow  dim  with  handling)  presently 

Thtir  gloss  is  gone;  and  then  our  thoughts  recall 

Worth  overlooked,  and  let  each  failing  fall 

To  deep  oblivion.     Yes,  the  sun  that  parted 

In  clouds,  will  shine  when  we  are  softer-hearted  ; 

And  absence  softens  hearts;  and  time  hath  power 

clear  those  clouds,  which  stained  a  peevish  hour ;- 
Call  recollections  from  their  pensive  gloom, 
Like  kind,  but  injured  spectres  from  the  tomb — 
Accusing  with  their  smiles.     Oh,  this  should  move, 
The  soul  to  those  it  loves — or  ought  to  love  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  5 

'Twould  bar  reproach. 

Yet,  'tis  not  always  fair 

To  read  the  bosom  through  the  eye — for  there 
A  sleepless,  an  untold  of  worm  may  lurk, 
And  do,  although  it  'plain  not,  deadly  work; 
And  make  men  seem  unkind  to  those  whom  heaven 
Hath  heard  them  plead  for,  when  the  heart  was  riven 
With  its  own  griefs.     If  such  are  breathing,  sure 
Life  lends  no  joy  ? — they  live  not — they  endure — 
And  (were  there  not  a  world  beyond  this  scene) 
Than  thus  to  be  'twere  better  not  have  been ! 

Flash  courses  flash  !  the  war-ship's  mast  is  shivered — 

Smote  by  the  cloudsped  bolt  that  o'er  it  quivered! 

A  broader  flame  the  midnight  blackness  broke — 

Her  magazine  receives  the  thunder-stroke, 

And  fires  that  vault,  which  stars  no  longer  pave, 

As  though  a  SUN  were  bursting  from  the  wave! 

Bewildering,  giddy  glare  !     The  echoes  reel 

From  cliff  to  cliff,  replying  to  the  peal 

That  red  explosion  rang  along  the  sky ; 

It  seemed  as  if  its  cloud-voiced  potency 

Surprised  the  rocks  to  utterance  !     The  bay 

Heaved  liquid  flame  beneath  the  sudden  day, 

Whose  dawn  was  death;  and  some, who  cursed  the  night, 

Hid  their  pale  eyes  from  that  appalling  light. 

Sped  by  her  star,  a  gallant  ship  drew  near — 

The  signal-shot  flashed  frequent  from  her  tier — 

She  struck,  and  staggered,  in  her  mid  career  ; 

Then,  swift  as  thought,  her  fragments  strewed  the  spray, 

As  some  enchanted  castle  melts  away ! 

A  crowded  skiff  was  labouring  for  the  land — 

The  wreck  they  fled  drove  mastless  and  unmanned ; 

Bold  the  attempt,  but  fruitless,  to  elude 

The  swiftly-rolling  billows  that  pursued. 

Their  bark  had  rubbed  the  sand,  but  failed  to  reach 

Ere  mountain  waves  broke  o'er  it  on  the  beach, 


(t  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  dashed  them  to  the  earth  : — they  rise— they  spring— 

Vain  as  the  wounded  plover's  fluttering! 

For  oh!   as  if  some  sea-Iicnd  mocked  their  toil, 

The  big  wave  caught  them  in  its  swift  recoil. 

One  youth  was  left — the  lightning  as  it  sped 

.Showed  those  who  baulked  the  Sea-dog  of  the  dead, — 

Fling  forth  the  coil  !,e  shivering  grasped — and  now, 

While  some  shade  hark  the  tangle  from  his  brow, 

An  age- worn  man  that  free/ing  eye  surveys, 

Where  life  late  playe.!— alas  no  longer  pl-ys!       [speak 

Smites    his   scathed   breast — and   cries  (in    tones  which 

The  heart's  last  burst  of  anguish  ere  it  break) — 

'  How  have  I  sighed  to  hail  thy  wanderings  done—* 

*  And  meet  we  thus  at  last — my  son  !  my  son  !' 

The  storm  relents  not—  as  the  tiger's  mood 
Becomes  blood-thirsty  by  the  taste  of  blood, 
It  growls  for  other  victims  !     Hast  thou  been 
The  near  spectator  of  a  shipwreck  scene? 
Heard  the  unanswered  cry  of  sore  distress, 
Marked  the  strong  throes  of  drowning  -eagerness, 
The  body  maddened  by  the  spiritVpain, 
The  wild,  wild,  working  of  the  breast  and  brain, 
The  haggard  eye  that,  horror- widened,  sees 
Death  take  the  start  of  sorrow  and  disease  ? 
For  such  Were  heard  and  seen — so  close  at  hand, 
A  cable's  length  had  reached  them  from  the  land ; 
Yet  farther  off  than  ocean  ever  bore  ; — 
Eternity  between  them  and  the  shore  ! 
Some  sought  the  beach  with  many  a  sob  and  strain, 
But  felt  each  sinew  fettered  by  a  chain 
Which  dragged  them  writhing  down  :  a  secret  hand 
Buoyed  others  up,  and  cast  them  on  the  land- 
Miraculously  saved  !     A  few  were  there 
Who  prayed  with  fervent,  and  confiding  prayer — 
Alas,  too  few  !  The  many  still  would  cling 
To  toil  and  tears — to  life  and  suffering. 
And  some,  whose  anguish  might  not  brook  to  wait 
That  shunless  doom,  plunged  headlong  to  their  fate  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Yet  nature  struggled  to  the  last  thick  gasp  ; 
It  was  a  misery  to  see  them  grasp 
The  sliding  wares,  and  clench  the  hand,  and  toil 
Like  a  spent  eagle  in  the  whirlwind's  coil — 
Till  dashed  against  some  floating  spar  or  mast, 
On  Ocean's  rocking  couch  they  slept  at  last. 
Tale,  panic-struck,  the  youth  falls  prostrate — reft 
Of  senses  th;it  bad  maddened  were  they  left; 
The  hardened  fool,  whose  life  of  enterprise 
Long  verged  on  death,  in  drunken  frenzy  dies; 
And  helpless  woman's  wail,  upon  the  wave, 
Pleads  at  the  heart,  which  yearns  in  vain  to  save. 
JJiit  there  were  some,  in  hopelessness  of  soul, 
Who  pined  at  heart  to  reach  the  destined  goal; 
Yes,  long  had  spurned  the  load  of  life,  unawcd, 
But  dared  not  rush,  uncalled,  before  their  God  ; — 
Or,  haply,  pride  that  tremhled  at  a  stain, 
Or,  haply,  love  for  those  they  would  not  pain, 
Had  moved  to  give  the  fatal  purpose  up- — 
Unedged  the  steel,  and  spilled  the  poison-cup  : 
These,  hitter  days,  soul-racking  nights  had  tried — 
And  scaped,  perchance,  the  curse  of  suicide. 


III. 
THE  EAST-INDIAMAN. 

How  like  a  )'ounkcr,  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 
Hugged  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
How  like  the  prodigal  dotTi  she  return; 
With  over-weathered  ribs,  am!  ragged  sails, 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggared  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

AN  anxious,  lingering,  perilous  voyage  past, 
An  India  ship  hailed  Albion's  land  at  last ! 


8  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Moored  in  the  Downs,  her  mighty  pinions  close 
Like  some  far  flying  bird  that  seeks  repose; 
While,  crowding  on  the  deck,  a  hundred  eyes 
Turned  shoreward — flashed  with  pleasure  and  surprise. 
That  eve  they  anchored,  from  the  horizon's  hem 
The  virgin  Moon,  as  if  to  welcome  them, 
Rose  from  her  rcsi — hut  would  no  more  reveal 
Than  the  faint  outline  of  her  pale  profile: 
Though  soon  (as  maids  forego  their  fears)  she  gave 
Her  orbed  brow  to  kiss  the  wanton  wave  : 
Till — like  a  scornful  lover,  swoll'n  with  pride, 
Because  too  fondly  loved  to  be  denied, 
The  rude  wave  spurned  her  off,  and  raised  that  loud 
And  angry  blast  that  screamed  through  sail  and  shroud, 
The  live-long  night  on  which  my  harp  is  dwelling. 
Meanwhile,  the  swarthy  crew,  each  care  dispelling, 
Had  sported  thrice  three  summer  suns  away 
Since  they  had  cast  their  anchor  in  that  bay. 
O,  none  save  Fortune's  step-sons,  doomed  to  roam 
The  deep,  can  prize  a  harbour  and  a  home  !          [ing — 
The  temperate  breeze  their  sun-bronzed  temples  bless- 
A  native  shore  the  gladdened  eye  refreshing — 
The  painted  pinnace  dancing  from  the  land 
Freighted  with  friends — the  pressure  of  the  hand 
Whose  pulse  throbs  happy  seconds — the  warm  gush 
Of  blood  into  the  cheek,  as  it  would  rush 
With  the  heart's  welcome  ere  the  tongue  could  half 
Perform  its  office — feeling's  telegraph  ! 
Impassioned  smiles,  and  tears  of  rapture  starting — 
Oh,  how  unlike  the  tears,  which  fell  at  parting  ! 
And  all  were  their's — that  good  ship's  gallant  crew — 
As  though  each  joy,  which  absence  rendered  due 
Were  paid  in  one  bright  moment :  such  are  known 
To  those  long  severed,  loving,  loved,  alone  ! 

A  gorgeous  freight  that  broad-sailed  vessel  bore — 
The  blazing  diamonds  and  the  blushing  ore  ; 
Spices  that  sighed  their  incense,  till  the  sails 
Were  fanned  along  on  aromatic  gales 


THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 

From  Orient  lands.     Then  marvel  not  if  he 

Who  there  is  Chief  should  look  exultingly 

Back  on  the  storms  he  baffled,  and  should  know 

The  bosom's  wannest  wildest  overflow 

While  gazing  on  the  land,  which  laughed  before  him — 

The  smooth  sea  round — the  blue  pavilion  o'er  him! 

Yet  felt  he  more  than  ever  sprang  from  these, 

For  love  demanded  deeper  sympathies  ; 

And  long  in  lonely  bower  had  sighed  lor  him 

A  fond  fair  Bride,  whose  infant  Cherubim 

Oft  spirit-clouded  from  its  playthings  crept, 

To  weep  beside  its  mother  while  she  wept. 

But  O,  they  met  at  length  !  And  such  sweet  days 

Already  proved  as  leave  a  light  that  plays 

Upon  the  memory  when  their  warmth  is  gone 

The  fount  thus  treasures  sun-beams,  and  shines  on 

Through  dusk  and  darkness.    Like  some  happy  mother, 

Joy  marked  the  hours  pursuing  one  another — 

A  wreath  of  buoyant  angels  !  Yet  as  they 

Wheeled  laughing  round, oft  sighed — to  make  them  stay! 

This  was  a  day  of  banqueting  on  board  ; 

And  swan-winged  barks,  and  barges  many-oared 

Came  crowded  to  the  feast.     The  young — the  gay — 

The  beautiful — were  there.     Right  merrily 

The  pleasure  boats  glide  onward  ; — with  swift  prow 

The  clear  wave  curling,  till  around  each  bow, 

With  frequent  flash,  the  bright  and  feathery  spray 

Threw  mimic  rainbows  at  the  sun  in  play. 

The  ship  is  won,  the  silken  chair  is  lowered — 

Exulting  Youth  and  Beauty  bound  on  board; 

And,  while  they  wondering  gaze  on  sail  and  shroud, 

The  flag  flaps  o'er  them  like  a  crimson  cloud. 

Young  Pleasure  kissed  each  heart !   From  Persia's  loom 

An  ample  awning  spread  its  purple  bloom 

To  canopy  the  guests ;  and  vases,  wreathed 

With  deep-hued  flowers  and  foliage,  sweetly  breathed 

Their  incense,  fresh  as  zephyrs  when  they  rove 

Among  the  blossoms  of  a  citron  grove  ; 


10  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Soft  sounds — (invisible  spirits  on  the  wing) — 

Were  heard  and  felt  around  them  hovering  ; — 

In  short,  some  magic  seemed  to  sway  the  hour, 

The  wand-struck  deck  becomes  an  orient  bower  ! 

A  very  wilderness  of  blushing  roses, 

Just  such  as  Love  would  choose  when  he  reposes. 

The  pendant  orange  from  a  lush  of  leaves, 

Hangs  like  Hesperian  gold  ;  and,  tied  in  sheaves, 

Carnations  prop  their  triple  coronals  ; 

The  grape,  out-peeping  from  thick  foliage,  falls 

Like  clustered  amethysts  in  deep  festoons  ; 

And  shells  are  scattered  round,  which  Indian  moong 

Had  sheeted  with  the  silver  of  their  beams  ; 

But  O,  what,  more  than  all,  the  scene  beseems, 

Fair,faultless  forms,glide  there  with  wing-like  motion  ! — 

Bright  as  young  Peris  rising  from  the  ocean  ! 

Eve  darkened  down — and  yet  they  were  not  gone  ; 
The  sky  had  changed, — the  sudden  storm  came  on ! 
ONE  waved  on  high  a  ruby  sparkling  bowl — 
(Youth,  passion,  wine,  ran  riot  in  his  soul) — 
"  Fill  to  the  brim,"  he  cried,  "  let  others  peer 
Their  doubtful  path  to  heaven  ; — my  heaven  is  here ! 
This  hour  is  mine,  and  who  can  dash  its  bliss  ? 
Fate  dare  not  darken  such  an  hour  as  this !" 
Then  stooped  to  quaff; — but  (as  a  charm  were  thrown) 
His  hand,  his  lips,  grew  motionless  as  stone  ; 
The  drunkness  of  his  heart  no  more  deceives — 
The  thunder  growls,  the  surge-smote  vessel  heaves  ; 
And  while  aghast  he  stared,  a  hurrying  squall 
Rent  the  wide  awning,  and  discovered  all  ! 
Across  their  eyes  the  hissing  lightning  blazed — 
The  black  wave  burst  beside  them  as  they  gazed  ; 
And  dizzily  the  thick  surf  scattered  o'er  them  ; 
And  dim  and  distant  loomed  the  land  before  them  ; 
No  longer  firm — the  eternal  hills  did  leave 
Their  solid  rest,  and  heaved,  or  seemed  to  heave. 
O,  'twas  an  awful  moment ! — for  the  crew 
Had  rashly,  deeply  drank,  while  yet  they  knew 
No  ruling  eye  was  on  them — and  became 
Wild  as  the  tempest !  Peril  could  not  tame— 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  11 

Nay,  stirred  their  brutal  hearts  to  more  excess  ; 

Hound  the  deserted  banquet-board  they  press, 

Like  men  transformed  to  fiends,  with  oath  and  yell ! 

And  many  deemed  the  sea  less  terrible 

Than  maniacs  fiercely  ripe  for  all,  or  aught, 

That  ever  flashed  upon  a  desperate  thought! 

Strange  laughter  mingled  with  the  shriek  and  groan — 

Nor  woman  shrank,  nor  woman  wept  alone. 

Some,  as  a  bolt  had  smote  them,  fell  ; — and  some 

Stared  haggard  wild  : — dismay  had  struck  them  dumb. 

There  were  of  firmer  nerve,  or  fiercer  cast, 

Who  scowled  defiance  back  upon  the  blast — 

Half  scorning  in  their  haughty  souls  to  be 

Thus  pent  and  buffeted.     And  tenderly, 

Even  then,  to  manly  hearts  fair  forms  were  drawn, 

Whose  virgin  eyes  had  never  shed  their  dawn 

Before — soft,  beautifully  shy — to  flush 

A  lover's  hope  ;  but  as  the  dove  will  rush 

Into  the  school-boy's  bosom  to  elude 

The  swooping  goshawk — woman  thus  subdued, 

Will  cling  to  those  she  shunned  in  lighter  mood — 

The  soul  confess  emotions  but  concealed — 

Pure,  glowing,  deep,  though  lingeringly  revealed  ; 

That  true  camelion,  which  imbibes  the  tone 

Of  every  passion-hue  she  pauses  on  ! 

O,  'tis  the  cheek  that's  false — so  subtly  taught 

It  takes  not  of  its  colour  from  the  thought; 

But  like  volcanic  mountains  veiled  in  snow, 

Hides  the  heart's  lava,  while  it  works  below  ! 

And  there  were  two  who  loved,  but  never  told 
Their  love  to  one  another:  years  had  rolled 
Since  Passion  touched  them  with  his  purple  wing, 
Though  still  their  youth  was  in  its  blossoming. 
Lofty  of  soul,  as  riches  were  denied, 
He  deemed  it  mean  to  woo  a  wealthy  bride  ; 
And  (for  her  tears  wore  secret)  coldly  she 
Wreathed  her  pale  brow  in  maiden  dignity  ; 
Yet  each  had  caught  the  other's  eye  reposing, 
And,  far  as  looks  disclose,  the  truth  disclosing ; 


12  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

But  when  they  met,  pride  checked  the  soul's  warm  sighy 

And  froze  the  melting  spirit  of  the  eye: — 

A  pride  in  vulgar  hearts  that  never  shone. 

And  thus  they  loved,  and  silently  loved  on  ; 

But  this  was  not  a  moment  when  the  head 

Could  trifle  with  the  heart  !  The  cloud  that  spread 

Its  chilling  veil  between  them,  now  had  past — 

Too  long  awaking — hut  they  woke  at  last  ! 

He  rushed  where  clung  the  fainting  fair  one — sought 

To  soothe  with  hopes  he  felt  not,  cherished  not  ; 

And  while  in  passionate  support  lie  prcst, 

She  raised  her  eyes — then  swiftly  on  his  breast 

Hid  her  blanched  cheek — as  if  resigned  to  share 

The  worst  with  him  ; — nay,  die  contented  there  ! 

That  silent  act  was  fondly  eloquent; 

And  to  the  youth's  deep  soul,  like  lightning,  sent 

A  gleam  of  rapture — exquisite  yet  brief, 

As  his  (poor  wretch)  that  in  the  grave  of  grief 

Feels  Fortune's  sun  burst  on  him,  and  looks  up 

With  hope  to  heaven — forgetful  of  the  cup, 

The  deadly  cup  his  shivering  hand  yet  strained — 

A  hot  heart-pang  reminds  him—it  is  drained  ! 

Away  with  words !  for  when  had  true  love  ever 

A  happy  star  to  bless  it  ? — Never,  never ! 

And  oh,  the  brightest  after-smile  of  Fate 

Is  but  a  sad  reprieve,  which  comes — too  late  ! 

The  riot  shout  pealed  on  ; — but  deep  distress 

Had  sunk  all  else  in  utter  hopelessness  ! 

One  marked  the  strife  of  frenzy  and  despair — 

The  most  concerned,  and  yet  the  calmest  there; 

In  bitterness  of  soul  beheld  his  crew — 

He  should  have  known  them,  and  he  thought  he  knew  J 

The  blood-hound  on  the  leash  may  fawn,  obey — 

He'l!  tear  thee.  shouklest  thou  cross  him  at  his  prey  1 

One  only  trust  survives  a  doubtful  one — 

But  O,  how  cherished,  every  other  gone  ! 

"  While  hold  our  cables,  fear  not" — As  he  spoko 

A  sea  burst  o'er  them,  and  their  cables  broke ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  13 

Then  like  a  lion  bounding  from  the  toil, 
The  ship  shot  through  the  billow's  black  recoil ; 
Urged  by  the  howling  blast — all  guidance  gone — 
They  shuddering  felt  her  reeling,  rushing  on — 
Nor  dared  to  question  where  ;  nor  dared  to  cast 
One  asking  look — for  that  might  be  their  last ! 

What  frowns  so  steep  in  front — a  cliff?  a  rock  ? 
The  groaning  vessel  staggers  in  the  shock ! 
The  last  shriek  rings. 

Hark  !  whence  that  voice  they  hear 
Loud  o'er  the  rushing  waters — loud  and  near  ? 
Alas  !  they  dream  ! — 'tis  but  the  ocean  roar  ! — 
Oh  no  !  it  echoes  from  the  swarming  shore  ! 
Kind  Heaven,  tlty  hand  was  there.  With  swelling  bound 
The  vast  waves  heaved  the  giant  hull  aground  ; 
And,  ebbing  with  the  turning  tide,  became, 
Like  dying  monsters,  impotent  and  tame  ; 
Wedged  in  the  sand  their  chafing  can  no  more 
Than  lave  her  sides,  and  deaden  with  their  roar 
The  clamorous  burst  of  joy.     But  some  there  were 
Whose  joy  was  voiceless  as  their  late  despair — 
Whose  heaven-ward  eyes,  clasped  hands,  and  streaming 

cheeks, 

Did  speak  a  language,  which  the  lip  ne'er  speaks  ! 
O,  he  were  heartless,  in  that  passionate  hour, 
Who  could  riot  feel  that  weakness  hath  its  power, 
When  gentle  woman,  sobbing  and  subdued, 
Breathed  forth  her  vow  of  holy  gratitude, 
Warm  as  the  contrite  Mary's,  when — forgiven — 
An  angel  smiled,  recording  it  in  heaven  ! 


14  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

IV. 

THE  MORNING  AFTER  THE  STORM. 

O  heavens  !  is't  possible  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 
Nature  is  fine  in  love  :  and  where  'tis  fine, 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

HAMLET. 

'Tis  midnight.     Eyeless  Darkness,  like  a  blind 

And  haggard  witch,  with  power  to  loose  and  bind 

The  spirits  of  the  elements  at  will, 

Draws  her  foul  cloak  across  the  stars,  until 

Those  Demons  she  invoked  to  vex  the  waves 

Have  dived  and  hid  them  in  their  ocean-caves: 

And  they  are  fled  ; — though  still  the  mighty  heart 

Of  Nature  throbs.     And  now  that  hag  doth  start 

(Her  swarth  cheek  turning  pale  in  bitter  spite) 

For  through  her  brow  she  feels  the  cold  moonlight 

Shoot  like  a  pain,  as  on  a  western  hill 

The  setting  planet  of  the  night  stood  still, 

Just  parted  from  a  cloud.     No  more  the  blast 

Wailed,  like  a  nnked  spirit  rushing  past, 

As  though  it  sought  a  resting  place  in  vain. — 

The  storm  is  lulled  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  pain 

To  tell  what  wreck  and  ruin  strewed  the  shore  ! — 

Each  wave  its  freight  of  death  or  damage  bore. 

Here,  stained  and  torn,  a  royal  flag  was  cast  ; 

There  lay  a  broken  helm,  a  shattered  mast; 

And  oh,  the  saddest  relic  of  the  storm, 

Yon  wave  conveys  a  seaman's  lifeless  form  ! 

'Tis  morn — the  waning  mists,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
Draw  their  cold  curtains  slowly  from  the  deep. 
'Tis  morn — but  gladness  comes  not  with  her  ray  ! 
The  bright  and  breathing  scene  of  yesterday 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  15 

Is  gone,  as  if  that  swift  consuming  wing 

Had  brushed  the  deep,  which  smote  Assyria's  King, 

And  left  his  Host,  like  sear  leaves,  withering  ! 

The  sea  swells  full,  but  smooth—to  Passion's  thrill, 

Though  spent  her  tempest,  heaves  the  young  heart  still  ; 

A  bleakness  slumbers  o'er  it — here  and  there 

Some  desolate  hull,  forsaken  in  despair, 

Drives  idly,  like  a  friendless  outcast  thing 

Which  still  survives  the  world's  abandoning. 

Where  are  her  sails — her  serried  tiers'  display — 

Her  helm — her  wide  flag's  emblemed  blazonry  ? 

Her  crew  of  fiery  spirits, — where  are  they  ? 

Far  scattered  groups,  dejected,  hurried,  tread 
The  beach  in  silence,  where  the  shipwrecked  dead 
LiestifFand  strained.  Among  them  (humbling  thought !) 
They  seek  their  friends — yet  shrink  from  what  they 

sought, 

As  on  some  corse  the  eye,  recoiling,  fell — 
Though  livid,  swoll'n — but  recognized  too  well ! 

Apart,  disturbed  in  spirit,  breathless,  pale — 

Her  unbound  tresses  floating  on  the  gale — 

A  Maiden  hastened  on  ; — across  her  way, 

As  though  he  slept,  a  lifeless  sailor  lay. 

She  paused,  and  gazed  a  moment — shuddered,  sank 

Beside  that  victim  on  the  wave-washed  bank — 

Bent  shivering  lips  to  press  his  haggard  cheek, 

But  started  backward  with  a  loathing  shriek! 

Fond  wretch  !  thy  half-averted  eyes  discover 

The  cold  and  bloodless  aspect  of  thy  Lover  ! 

Their  tale  is  brief.     The  youth  was  one  of  those 
Who  spurned  the  thought  of  safety  or  repose 
Whilst  Peril  stalks  the  deep:  where'er  displayed, 
The  flag,  which  sues  for  succour  has  their  aid — 
The  foeman's  or  the  friend's; — no  pausing  then 
To  question  who  implore  them — they  are  men  ! 
A  noble  race — and,  though  unfamed,  unknown, 
A  race  that  England  should  be  proud  to  own  ! 


16  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

lie,  with  a  few  as  generously  brnve, 

Had  heard  the  death-wail  rising  from  the  wave, 

And,  in  an  ill-starred  moment,  sought  to  save. 

The  lifehoat  readied  the  foundering  ship — her  crew 

AVith  greedy  haste  secured  the  rope  it  threw, 

And  in  the  wild  avidity  for  life, 

Rushed  reeling  in.     Alas  !  that  fatal  strife 

But  sealed  their  doom  !  the  flashing  billows  roar 

Above  their  heads — one  pang — they  strove  no  more  ! 

He  did  not  love  unloved  ;  for  she  who  prest 

That  clay-cold  hand  so  madly  to  her  breast, 

Believ'd  his  vows  ;  and  but  for  Fortune's  scorn 

Young  Love  had  smiled  on  this  their  bridal  morn  ! 

But  oh,  his  years  are  few  who  hath  not  felt 

That,  while  we  grasp,  the  rainbow  bliss  will  melt; 

That  hopes,  like  clouds,  which  gleam  across  the  moon, 

Soon  pass  away,  and  lose  their  light  as  soon  ! 

The  weltering  mass  she  folds,  but  yesternight 

Heaved  warm  with  life — his  rayless  eye  was  bright : 

And  she  whose  cheek  the  rose  of  rapture  spread, 

Raves  now  a  maniac — widow'd,  yet  unwed, — 

And  reckless  wanderings  take  the  place  of  woe  ! — 

She  fancies  joys  that  glow  not,  nor  can  glow; 

Breathes  in  a  visionary  world,  and  weaves 

A  web  of  bliss — scarce  falser  than  deceives 

The  reasoning  heart;  oft  sings  and  weeps  ;  and  now 

Entwines  a  sea-weed  garland  for  her  brow, 

And  says  it  is  a  marriage  wreath.     Meanwhile 

Her  calm  vague  look  will  dawn  into  a  smile, 

As  something  met  her  eye  none  else  should  see; 

She  folds  her  hands,  and  bends  imploringly 

To  sue  its  stay  ; — with  wilder  gesture  turns, 

And  clasps  her  head,  and  cries — "  It  burns,  it  burns!" 

Then  shakes  as  if  her  heart  were  ice. 

Not  long 

The  soul,  the  frame,  conld  brook  such  bitter  wrong  : — 
Beside  her  lover's — that  distracted  head 
Rests  calm  and  pale — the  grave  their  bridal  bed. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  17 

SONNET 

ON    PARTING    WITH    HIS    BOOKS. 
BY    WILLIAM    ROSCOE,    ESft. 

As  one,  who  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  hut  hopes  again,  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  srnile, 
And  tempers  as  he  may  affliction's  dart ; 
Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 
Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, — 
I  now  resign  you  !     Nor  with  fainting  heart ; 
For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  ; 
"When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 
Gentleman's  Magazine. 


THE   ARTIST'S   STUDIO. 

Beauty  should  be  around  the  beautiful, 
And  these  fine  Arts  live  in  an  atmosphere 
Of  light  surrounded  by  thrice  delicate  shapes 
Of  grace  and  love. 

THE  light  came  dim  but  beautiful,  through  blinds 
Of  the  linked  jessamine,  which  wooed  the  vine 
With  its  white  kisses ;  and  the  fragrant  air, 
Bearing  low  music  from  the  wind-touched  harp, 
Came  floating  through  the  room.     By  glimpses  seen, 
As  o'er  the  lattices  the  moonlight  played 
And  lighted  up  its  waters,  shone  the  lake, 
With  its  white  swans,  like  spirits,  gliding  on 
2* 


18  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Its  isles  of  floating  lilies  ;  and  its  banks, 

AVhere  swept  the  graceful  willows  and  the  turf, 

Silvered  with  dew  and  star-light  spread  beneath, 

Dotted  with  clumps  of  gloomy  cypresses, 

Mixed  with  the  fairer  blossomed  orange  trees. 

And  far  beyond,  like  shadowy  thunder-clouds, 

Rose  high  but  distant  hills;  and  over  all 

A  soft  and  blue  Italian  sky, — the  blue 

That  painters  and  that  poets  love, — the  blue 

The  lover  worships  in  the  maiden's  eyes, 

Whose  beauty  is  their  power  and  spell.     And,  like 

Sweet  incense  to  sweet  shrines,  dew-scented  flowers 

Filled  up  the  casements  ;  roses,  on  whose  leaves 

The  summer  had  just  breathed  ;  the  buds  of  pearl 

That  are  the  myrtle's  dower  ;  carnation  stems, 

Rich  in  their  perfumed  blushes — all  were  there 

Looking  and  breathing  June.     The  marble  floor 

Had  not  a  spot,  save  two  or  three  rich  stains 

Cast  from  the  pictured  roof,  on  which  was  told 

The  history  of  Aurora  and  her  love, 

The  earthly  Youth  she  wooed,  and  wooed  in  vain. 

Oh,  love  is  very  constant !     'Tis  most  cold, 

Untrue,  and  heartless  raillery,  to  say 

That  love's  life  is  not  longer  than  those  flowers 

Whose  sunrise  beauty  is  by  noontide  past ; 

That  it  should  ever  change,  is  but  the  curse 

Shadowing  our  every  earthly  happiness  ; 

But,  for  one  record  of  its  fickleness 

Are  thousand  memories  of  its  deep,  deep  truth, — 

Its  entire  faith,  its  self-devotedness. 

On  one  side  of  the  roof  a  golden  blaze, 

Curtained  by  crimson  clouds,  told  that  the  Sun, 

Heralded  by  her  star,  had  met  his  bride, 

The  sweet  young  Morning  ;  and  around,  a  ring 

Of  radiant  shapes  were  gathered  ;  in  the  midst 

Was  one,  a  very  dream  of  loveliness, 

Her  hair  streamed  on  the  wind,  a  shower  of  gold 

Hung  from  a  crown  of  stars,  and  four  white  steeds 

Were  harnessed  by  spring  blossoms  to  the  car 

Whereon  she  stood.     Her  eye  was  on  a  youth, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  19 

Graceful  as  young  Endymion  when  the  moon 

Shed  her  pale  smile  upon  his  innrble  brow 

And  thick  and  raven  curls  :  he  stood  beneath 

A  green  beech  tree,  two  hounds  were  by  his  side, 

Impatient  of  his  idleness,  while  he 

Leant  on  his  useless  spear,  watching  the  sleep 

Of  his  young  bride.     He  had  just  heard  his  name 

Murmured,  in  tones  low  as  a  bird's  first  song 

From  her  half  opened  lips,  which  like  spring  flowers 

Drank  the  fresh  air,  then  sighed  it  forth  again 

With  added  fragrance.     There  was  shade  around  ; 

The  laurel,  and  the  darker  bay,  the  oak, 

All  sacred  as  the  crowns  of  fame.     The  first 

Bound  round  the  Poet's  tuneful  lyre  ;  the  next 

Around  the  Warrior's  hclrn,  mixed  with  the  pine 

And  with  the  waving  poplar.     In  the  midst, 

As  in  a  favourite  haunt,  were  flowers  entwined  ; 

And  there  the  sleeper  lay:  one  pearl  white  hand — 

The  violets  rose  to  kiss  its  azure  veins, 

Coloured  with  their  own  purity,  beneath 

One  cheek  was  as  a  pillow,  and  that  one 

Was  flushed  with  crimson,  while  the  other  wore 

A  tint  less  warm,  but  not  less  beautiful — 

Two  shades  of  blushing  on  the  self-same  rose  ; 

And  through  the  tremulous  shadow  of  the  leaves 

Came  two  or  three  bright  kisses  from  the  sun, 

Wandering  in  light  o'er  her  white  brow  ;  a  shower 

Of  rose  leaves  lay  amid  the  raven  curls 

Of  her  long  hair  and  on  her  neck.     That  morn 

Around  her  slender  waist  and  graceful  head 

She  had  bound  new-blown  buds.     But  all  fair  things 

Are  very  fragile,  and  each  scattered  bloom 

Had  fallen  from  the  loosened  braid:  even  those 

Prisoners  in  the  soft  hand,  which  lay  like  snow 

Upon  the  grass,  had  half  escaped  ;  and  there 

She  slept  amid  the  roses  she  had  gathered. 

And  round  the  walls  were  pictures:  some,  calm  scenes 
Or' earth's  green  loveliness  ;  and  some,  whose  hues 
Were  caught  from  faces  in  whose  smile  our  life 
Is  one  of  Paradise ;  and  statues,  whose  white  grace 


20  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Is  as  a  dream  of  poetry.     But,  hung 

Apart  from  all  the  rest,  as  if  too  dear 

For  aught  but  solitude,  was  one, — it  was 

The  portrait  of  a  lovely  girl  ;  the  lips 

Were  such  as  Summer  kisses,  when  he  first 

Touches  the  pure  and  rosy  mouth  of  Spring  ; 

A  languid  smile  was  on  them,  as  just  curled 

By  some  soft  thought,  which  spoke  too  in  her  eyes, 

Dark  and  bewildering,  with  light  like  that 

Of  an  Italian  midnight,  when  the  clouds 

Send  forth  their  summer  lightning,  but  yet  filled 

With  woman's  tenderness.     Those  lips,  those  eyes, 

Had  been  voluptuous,  melting  as  they  were, 

But  for  the  pale  cheek,  o'er  which  e'en  a  "blush 

Had  scarcely  passed,  it  looked  so  innocent ; 

And  the  white  brow,  with  its  dark  parted  hair 

Shading  its  purity  ;  and  the  clear  temples, 

Whose  blue  veins  were  half  hidden  by  the  braids 

Of  the  thick  tresses,  which,  unfastened,  fell 

Over  the  veiled  bosom.     The  white  dress 

Just  left  the  slender  throat  exposed,  as  fair, 

As  graceful,  as  the  cygnet's.     Neither  gems 

Nor  gold,  marred  youth's  sweet  sirnpleness;  but  one 

Slight  flower  lay  on  her  neck, — a  green  rosebud, 

Tinged  with  faint  promise  of  its  future  bloom; 

And  near  it  the  young  Painter  leant  his  head, 

Bowed,  as  in  bitter  thought  upon  his  hand  ; 

Over  his  cheek  there  was  a  burning,  red, 

Half  passionate  emotion,  half  disease, — 

And  the  damp  lay  on  his  white  brow,  and  hung 

On  his  thick  curls  of  auburn  hair  ;  his  eyes, 

Blue  as  his  native  sky  when  it  shines  forth 

Amid  the  pauses  of  an  April  shower, 

Seemed  as  they  drank  the  Moon's  light,  with  such  bright 

And  such  wild  glance  they  turned  towards  her  ray. 

He  was  a  stranger  in  fair  Italy  : 

He  sought  her  kingdom,  for  it  was  a  home 

For  genius  and  for  beauty  ;  it  had  been 

His  land  of  promise  through  the  sunny  dreams 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  21 

Of  his  impassioned  boyhood  ;  he  had  come 

With  a  rich  store  of  burning  thoughts,  of  hopes 

Like  sunrise,  vivid  fancies,  feelings  wild, 

High  energies,  all  that  young  talent  lias  ; 

And  he  had  nourished  them  amid  those  shades 

Hallowed  by  memories  of  old,  and  still 

Kept  sacred  by  their  own  green  pleasantness, — 

Amid  the  glorious  works  of  glorious  men, — 

Pictures  alive  with  light,  and  stately  domes 

Built  for  eternity, — music  like  hope, 

So  very  sweet, — and  poetry,  whose  songs 

Are  Love's  own  words,  until  he  dreamed  that  fame 

Was  a  reality  that  he  might  win. 

He  dreamed  but  to  awake  with  withered  heart 

And  wasted  health,  and  hopes  like  fallen  stars, 

Crushed  and  stained  with  the  earth  to  which  they  fell. 

Oh  Genius !  fling  aside  thy  starry  crown, 
Close  up  thy  rainbow  wings,  and  on  thy  head 
Heap  dust  and  ashes, — for,  this  cold  drear  world 
Is  but  thy  prison-house.     Alas  !  for  him 
Who  has  thy  dangerous  gifts,  for  they  are  like 
The  fatal  ones  that  evil  spirits  give,-— 
Bright  and  bewildering,  leading  unto  death  ! 
Oh,  not  amid  the  chill  and  earthly  cares 
That  waste  our  life,  may  those  fine  feelings  live 
That  are  the  Painter's  or  the  Poet's  light. 

Amid  the  many  graves,  which  in  the  shade 

Of  Rome's  dark  cypresses  are  graved  with  names 

Of  foreign  sound  to  Italy's  sweet  tongue, 

Was  one, — an  English  name  was  on  the  stone  ; — 

There  that  young  Painter  slept : — around  the  sod 

Were  planted  flowers  and  one  or  two  green  shrubs. 

'Twas  said  that  they  were  placed  in  fondness  there 

By  an  Italian  Girl  whom  he  had  loved  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


22  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

SONNET. 

BT    THE    REV.    W.    L.    BOWLES. 

WHEN  last  we  parted  thou  wert  young  and  fair ; 
How  beautiful,  let  fond  remembrance  say  ! 
Alas !  since  then,  old  Time  has  stol'n  away 
Full  thirty  years,  leaving  my  temples  bare. 
So  hath  it  perished  like  a  thing  of  air, 
The  dream  of  Love  and  Youth  ! — Now  both  are  gray, 
Yet  still  remembering  that  delightful  day, 
Though  Time  with  his  cold  touch  hath  blanched  my  hair, 
Though  I  have  suffered  many  years  of  pain 
Since  then ;  though  I  did  never  think  to  live 
To  hear  that  voice  or  see  those  eyes  again, 
I  can  a  sad,  but  cordial  greeting  give, 
And  for  thy  welfare  breathe  as  warm  a  prayer, 
Lady,  as  when  I  loved  thee  young  and  fair  ! 
Leeds  Intelligencer. 


TO   MONT  BLANC. 

MOUNTAIN, — who  reignest  o'er  thine  Alpine  peers 

Transcendently,  and  from  that  massive  crown 

Of  arrowy  brightness  dartest  down  thy  beams 

Upon  their  lesser  coronets, — all  hail ! 

Unto  the  souls  in  hallowed  musing  rapt, 

Spirits  in  which  creation's  glorious  forms 

Do  shadow  forth  and  speak  the  invisible, 

The  ethereal,  the  eternal,  thou  dost  shine 

With  emblematic  brightness.     Those  untrod 

And  matchless  domes,  though  many  a  weary  league 

Beyond  the  gazer,  when  the  misty  veil 

Dies  round  them,  start  upon  his  dazzled  sight 

In  vastness  almost  tangible  ;  thy  smooth 

And  bold  convexity  of  silent  snows 

Raised  on  the  still  and  dark  blue  firmament ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM,  23 

Mountain, — Thou  image  of  eternity!— 

Oh,  let  not  foreign  feet,  inquisitive, 

Swift  in  untrained  aspirings,  proudly  tempt 

Thy  searchless  waste  ! — What  half-taught  fortitude 

Can  balance  unperturbed  above  the  clefts 

Of  yawning  and  unfathomable  ice 

That  moat  thee  round  ;  or  wind  the  giddy  ledge 

Of  thy  sheer  granite  !     Hath  he  won  his  way, 

That  young  investigator  ?     Yes  ;  but  now, 

Quick  panting  on  superior  snows,  his  frame 

Trembles  in  dizziness  ;  his  wandering  look 

Drinks  pale  confusion  ;  the  wide  scene  is  dim; 

Its  all  of  firm  or  fleeting,  near  or  far, 

Deep  rolling  clouds  beneath,  and  wavering  mists 

That  flit  above  him  with  their  transient  shades, 

And  storm-deriding  rocks,  and  treacherous  snows, 

And  blessed  sun-light,  in  his  dying  eye 

Float  dubious ;  and  'tis  midnight  at  his  heart! 

Mountain, — That  firm  and  ardent  Genevese, 

The  enthusiast  child  of  science,  whose  bold  foot 

Bounded  across  thine  ice  rents,  who  disdained 

The  frozen  outworks  of  thy  steep  ravines, 

And  through  a  labyrinth  of  crystal  rocks 

Pressed  his  untired  ascent,  e'en  he,  and  all 

His  iron-band  of  native  mountaineers, 

While  scaling  the  aerial  cupola 

Of  Nature's  Temple,  owned  a  breathless  pang. 

Thy  most  attenuate  element  is  fit 

For  angel  roamings.     True,  his  zealous  mind 

Achieved  its  philosophic  aim,  and  marked 

And  measured  thee;  but  turned  to  earthly  climes 

Full  soon,  and  bent  in  gladness  toward  the  vale. 

Mountain, — The  sons  of  science  or  of  taste 
Need  not  essay  such  triumph.     'Tis  more  wise 
And  happier — till  a  fiery  chariot  wait, — 
To  scan  from  lesser  heights  thy  glorious  whole  ; 
To  climb  above  the  deep  though  lofty  plain 
That  wrongs  thee ;  pass  its  line  of  envious  peaks, 


24  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  stationed  at  thy  cross,  sublime  Flegero! 
Thence  meditate  the  monarch's  grandeur  ;  while 
His  host  of  subject  hills  are  spread  beneath  ; 
For  scarce,  till  then,  his  own  colossal  might 
Seems  disenthralled  ;  and  mute  astonishment, 
Unquenched  by  doubt  or  dread,  at  each  new  step, 
Shall  own  his  aspect  more  celestial  still. 
There,  in  some  hollow  nook  reclining,  whence 
The  bright-eyed  chamois  sprang;  with  tufted  bells 
Of  rhododendron  blushing  at  my  feet ; 
The  unprofaned  recess  of  Alpine  life 
Were  all  my  world  that  hour  ;  and  the  vast  mount 
In  his  lone  majesty  would  picture  heaven. 

Bright  mountain, — Ah  !  but  volumed  clouds  enwrap 

Thy  broad  foundations,  curtain  all  thy  steeps, 

And,  rising  as  the  orb  of  day  declines, 

Brood  on  the  vassal  chain  that  flank  thee  round, 

Then  thy  whole  self  involve — save,  haply,  when 

A  quick  and  changing  vista  may  reveal 

Some  spotless  portion  of  thy  front,  and  show 

Thee  not  unstable,  like  the  earth-born  cloud, 

Brilliant  though  hid,  abiding  if  unseen. 

Then,  as  the  vale  grows  darker,  and  the  sun 

Deserts  unnumbered  hills,  o'er  that  high  zone 

Of  gathered  vapour  thou  dost  sudden  lift 

Thy  silver  brow,  calm  as  the  hour  of  eve, 

Clear  as  the  morning,  still  as  the  midnight, 

More  beautiful  than  noon  ;  for  lo  !  the  sun 

Lingers  to  greet  thee  with  a  roseate  ray, 

And  on  thy  silver  brow  his  bright  farewell 

Is  gleaming  : — Mountain,  Thou  art  half  divine  ! 

Severed  from  earth  !  Irradiate  from  heaven  ! 

Thus  e'en  the  taught  of  heaven,  with  joyless  eye 

Fixed  on  the  sable  clouds,  which  fear  hath  cast 

O'er  all  the  landscape  of  his  destiny, 

May  fail  to  pierce  them ;  but,  though  legioned  shapes 

Of  nether  evil,  though  the  deep  array 

Of  stern  adversities,  and  murky  hosts 


THE    POETICAL     ALBUM.  25 

Of  dark  illusions  blot  his  upper  skies, 

Yet,  as  they  change,  through  that  incumbent  gloom 

Shall  he  catch  glimpses  of  the  hallowed  mount, 

And  weep  that  heaven  is  bright. — And  at  the  hour 

Of  stillness,  when  e'en  frightful  shadows  lade, 

When  night  seems  closing  o'er  his  latest  hopes, 

And  his  sun  set  for  ever, — then,  behold, 

Emerging  in  mid  heaven,  thy  glistening  top 

Oh,  Zion  !  and  the  God  that  ruled  his  day 

Hath  not  departed  ;  for  he  poureth  now 

His  radiance  on  thy  summits,  glancing  back 

A  thrilling  flood  into  his  servant's  soul ! 

4  Joy  full  of  glory  !' — Was  the  noon-day  dark? 

It  was  ; — but  eve  is  cloudless  ;  night  is  peace  ; 

Rapture  shall  gild  the  never-ending  morn  1 

Sheffield  Iris.  S. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN    TOR    RECITATION     AT     THE     FAREWELL    DIN- 
NER   IN    HONOUR    OF    JOHN    KEMBLE,    ESQ. 

BY   THOMAS    CAMPBELL,    KSa. 

PRIDE  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Whose  image  brought  the  heroic  age 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view  ; 
Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light, 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up, 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell, 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  '  Kemble,  fare-thee-well  I' 
3 


26 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  acting  lends, 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends  : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  one  glance  from  Time ; 
But,  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  wedded  triumphs  come, 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  efface  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resigned  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor  ? 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt  ? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possessed 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone  ; 
And  to  each  passion  of  his  breast 

The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  was  the  task,  too  high 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here, 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory, 

Of  KEMBLE,  and  of  Lear. 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head, 

Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half  extinguished  glare, 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 

In  doubt,  more  touching  than  despair  ; 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt — 

Had  SHAKSPEARE'S  self  amidst  you  been, 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt, 

And  triumphed  to  have  seen  ! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 
Of  blended  kindred  fame, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  27 

When  SIDDON'S  auxiliar  power, 

And  sister  magic  came  ; — 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side, 

Her  tragic  paragons  had  grown  ; — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne  ! 
And  undivided  favour  ran, 

From  heart  to  heart,  in  their  applause 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man, 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richly  graced, 
Your  Kemble's  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste. 
Taste,  like  the  silent  dial's  power, 

That  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour, 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  surveyed  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect, 

The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth  ; — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now  ! 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly  pleasing  brow  ? 
Alas ! — the  moral  brings  a  tear, — 

'Tis  all  a  transient  hour  below  ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here, 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go. 
Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  renew: — 
Pride  of  the  British  stage ! 

A  long  and  last  adieu! 
Literary  Gazette. 


28 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  LAST  TEAR. 

SHE  had  done  weeping,  but  her  eyelash  yet 
Lay  silken  heavy  on  her  lilied  cheek, 
And  on  its  fringe  a  tear,  like  a  lone  star 
Shining  upon  the  rich  and  hyacinth  skirts 
O'  the  western  cloud  that  veils  the  April  even. 
The  veil  rose  up,  and  with  it  rose  the  star, 
Glittering  above  the  gleam  of  tender  blue, 
That  widened  as  the  shower  clears  off  from  heaven. 
Her  beauty  woke, — a  sudden  beam  of  soul 
Flashed  from  her  eye,  and  lit  the  vestal's  cheek 
Into  one  crimson,  and  exhaled  the  tear. 
Literary  Gazttte. 


ADDRESS 

TO    THE    ALABASTER  SARCOPHAGUS,  DEPOSITED   Ilf    THE 
BRITISH    MUSEUM. 

BY   HORACE    SMITH,   ESa. 

THOU  Alabaster  relic  !  while  I  hold 

My  hand  upon  thy  sculptured  margin  thrown, 

Let  me  recall  the  scenes  thou  couldst  unfold, 

Might'st  thou  relate  the  changes  thou  hast  known  ; 

For  thou  wert  primitive  in  thy  formation, 

Launched  from  the  Almighty's  hand  at  the  creation. 

Yes — thou  wert  present  when  the  stars  and  skies 
And  worlds  unnumbered  rolled  into  their  places  ; 

When  God  from  chaos  bade  the  spheres  arise, 
And  fixed  the  blazing  sun  upon  its  basis, 

And  with  his  finger  on  the  bounds  of  space 

Marked  out  each  planet's  everlasting  race. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

How  many  thousand  ages  from  thy  birth 

Thou  slept'st  in  darkness  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

Till  Egypt's  sons  upheaved  thee  from  the  earth, 
And  year  by  year  pursued  their  patient  task, 

Till  thou  wert  carved  and  decorated  thus, 

Worthy  to  be  a  king's  sarcophagus  ! 

What  time  Elijah  to  the  skies  ascended, 

Or  David  reigned  in  holy  Palestine, 
Some  ancient  Theban  monarch  was  extended 

Beneath  the  lid  of  this  emblazoned  shrine, 
And  to  that  subterraneous  palace  borne 
Which  toiling  ages  in  the  rock  had  worn. 

Thebes,  from  her  hundred  portals,  filled  the  plain, 
To  see  the  car  on  which  thou  wert  upheld. 

What  funeral  pomps  extended  in  thy  train, 

What  banners  waved,  what  mighty  music  swelled, 

As  armies,  priests,  and  crowds  bewailed  in  chorus, 

Their  King— their  God— their  Serapis— their  Orus  ! 

Thus  to  thy  second  quarry  did  they  trust 
Thee,  and  the  lord  of  all  the  nations  round, 

Grim  king  of  silence  !  Monarch  of  the  dust ! 

Embalmed,  anointed,  jewelled,  sceptered,  crowned, 

Here  did  he  lie  in  state,  cold,  stiff  and  stark, 

A  leathern  Pharaoh  grinning  in  the  dark. 

Thus  ages  rolled  ;  but  their  dissolving  breath 
Could  only  blacken  that  imprisoned  thing, 

Which  wore  a  ghastly  royalty  in  death, 
As  if  it  struggled  still  to  be  a  king  ; 

And  each  dissolving  century,  like  the  last, 

Just  dropped  its  dust  upon  thy  lid,  and  passed. 

The  Persian  conqueror  o'er  Egypt  poured 
His  devastating  host — a  motley  crew  ; 

The  steel-clad  horseman, — the  barbarian  horde, 
Music  and  men  of  every  sound  and  hue, 

Priests,  archers,  eunuchs,  concubines,  and  brutes, — 

Gongs,  trumpets,  cymbals,  dulcimers,  and  lutes. 


30 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Then  did  tlic  fierce  Cambyses  tear  away 
The  ponderous  rock  that  sealed  the  sacred  tomb  ; 

Then  did  the  slowly  penetrating  ray 

Redeem  thee  from  long  centuries  of  gloom, 

And  lowered  torches  flashed  against  thy  side, 

As  Asia's  king  thy  blazoned  trophies  eyed. 

Plucked  from  his  grave,  with  sacrilegious  taunt, 
The  features  of  the  royal  corse  they  scanned  ; 

Dashing  the  diadem  from  his  temple  gaunt, 
They  tore  the  sceptre  from  his  graspless  hand  ; 

And  on  those  fields,  where  once  his  will  was  law, 

Left  him  for  winds  to  waste  and  beasts  to  gnaw. 

Some  pious  Thebans,  when  the  storm  was  past, 
Upclosed  the  sepulchre  with  cunning  skill, 

And  nature,  aiding  their  devotion,  cast 
Over  its  entrance  a  concealing  rill  ; 

Then  thy  third  darkness  came,  and  thou  didst  sleep 

Twenty-three  centuries  in  silence  deep. 

But  he  from  whom  nor  pyramids  nor  sphynx 
Can  hide  its  secrecies,  JBelzoni  came  ; 

From  the  tomb's  mouth  unloosed  the  granite  links, 
Gave  thee  again  to  light,  and  life,  and  fame, 

And  brought  thee  from  the  sands  and  deserts  forth, 

To  charm  the  pallid  children  of  the  North  ! 

Thou  art  in  London,  which,  when  thou  wert  new, 
Was  what  Thebes  is,  a  wilderness  and  waste, 

Where  savage  beasts  more  savage  men  pursue  ; 
A  scene  by  nature  cursed, — by  man  disgraced. 

Now — 'tis  the  world's  metropolis  ! — The  high 

Queen  of  arms,  learning,  arts  and  luxury  ! 

Here,  where  I  hold  my  hand,  'tis  strange  to  think 
What  other  hands,  perchance,  preceded  mine  ; 

Others  have  also  stood  beside  thy  brink, 
And  vainly  conned  the  moralizing  line! 

Kings,  sages,  chiefs,  that  touched  this  stone,  like  me, 

Where  are  ye  now  ? — Where  all  must  shortly  be. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  31 

AH  is  mutation  ; — he  within  this  stone 

Was  once  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  liour. 

His  bones  are  dust — his  very  name  unknown  ! — 
Go,  learn  from  him  the  vanity  of  power  ; 

Seek  not  the  frame's  corruption  to  control, 

But  build  a  lasting  mansion  for  thy  soul. 
JVew  Monthly  Magazine. 


TO  THE  DYING  YEAR. 

THOU  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Emblem  of  transitory  man, 
Whose  wearisome  and  wild  career, 

Like  thine,  is  bounded  to  a  span  ; 
It  seems  but  as  a  little  day 

Since  nature  smiled  upon  thy  birth, 
And  spring  came  forth  in  fair  array, 

To  dance  upon  the  joyous  earth. 

Sad  alteration  ! — Now  how  lone, 

How  vcrdureless  is  nature's  breast; 
Where  ruin  makes  his  empire  known, 

In  autumn's  yellow  vesture  drest : 
The  sprightly  bird,  whose  carol  sweet 

Broke  on  the  breath  of  early  day — 
The  summer  flowers  she  loved  to  greet — 

The  bird — the  flowers — oh  where  are  they  ? 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year! 

Yet  lovely  in  thy  lifelessness, 
As  beauty  stretched  upon  the  bier 

In  death's  clay -cold  and  dark  caress  ; 
There's  loveliness  in  thy  decay, 

Which  breathes;,  which  lingers  round  thee  still, 
Like  memory's  mild  and  cheering  ray 

Beaming  upon  the  night  oi  ill. 


32  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Yet — yet  the  radiance  is  not  gone 

Which  shed  a  richness  o'er  the  scene, 
Which  smiled  upon  the  gulden  dawn 

When  skies  were  brilliant  and  serene — 
Oh  !  still  a  melancholy  smile 

Gleams  upon  nature's  aspect  fair, 
To  charm  the  eye  a  little  while, 

Ere  ruin  spreads  his  mantle  there  ! 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Since  Time  entwined  thy  vernal  wreath, 
How  often  love  hath  shed  the  tear, 

And  knelt  beside  the  bed  of  death: 
How  many  hearts,  that  lightly  sprung 

When  joy  was  blooming  but  to  die, 
Their  finest  chords  by  death  unstrung, 

Have  yielded  life's  expiring  sigh. 

And  pillowed  low  beneath  the  clay, 

Have  ceased  to  melt — to  breathe — to  burn, 
The  proud,  the  gentle,  and  the  gay, 

Gathered  unto  the  mouldering  urn  ! 
Whilst  freshly  flowed  the  frequent  tear 

For  love  bereft — affection  fled — 
For  all  that  were  our  blessings  here, 

The  loved — the  lost — the  sainted  dead  ! 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

The  musing  spirit  finds  in  thee 
Lessons  impressive  and  severe 

Of  deep  and  stern  morality  ! — 
Thou  teachest.  how  the  germ  of  youth, 

Which  blooms  in  being's  dawning  day, 
Planted  by  Nature — reared  by  Truth — 

Withers  like  thee  in  dark  decay. 

Promise  of  youth  !  Fair  as  the  form 
Of  heaven's  benign  and  golden  bow, 

Thy  smiling  arch  begirds  the  storm, 
And  sheds  a  light  on  every  wo  : 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Hope  wakes  for  thee,  and  to  her  tongue, 

A  tone  of  melody  is  given, 
As  if  lier  magic  voice  were  strung 

With  the  empyreal  fire  from  heaven  ; 

And  love,  which  never  can  expire, 

Whose  origin  is  from  on  high, 
Throws  o'er  thy  morn  a  ray  of  fire 

From  the  pure  fountains  of  the  sky — 
That  ray,  which  glows  and  brightens  still 

Unchanged — eternal,  and  divine — 
Where  seraphs  own  its  holy  thrill, 

And  how  before  its  gleaming  shrine. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year, 

Prophetic  of  our  final  fall! 
Thy  buds  are  gone, — thy  leaves  are  sere, — 

Thy  beauties  shrouded  in  the  pall ; 
And  all  the  garniture  that  shed 

A  brilliancy  upon  thy  prime, 
Hath,  like  a  morning  vision,  fled 

To  the  expanded  grave  of  Time. 

Time  !  Time  !  In  thy  triumphal  flight 

How  all  life's  phantoms  fleet  away  ! 
The  smile  of  Hope — and  young  Delight 

Fame's  meteor  beam — and  Fancy's  ray  ; 
They  fade — and  on  thy  heaving  tide, 

Rolling  its  stormy  waves  afar, 
Are  borne  the  wrecks  of  human  pride, 

The  broken  wrecks  of  Fortune's  war. 

There,  in  disorder  dark  and  wild, 

Are  seen  the  fabrics  once  so  high, 
Which  mortal  vanity  had  piled 

As  emblems  of  Eternity  ! 
And  deemed  the  stately  domes,  whose  forms 

Frowned  in  their  majesty  sublime, 
Would  stand  unshaken  by  the  storms 

That  gathered  round  the  brow  of  Time. 


33 


54  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year ! 

Earth's  brightest  pleasures  fade  like  thine; 
Like  evening  shadows  disappear, 

And  leave  the  spirit  to  repine. 
The  stream  of  life,  that  used  to  pour 

Its  fresh  and  sparkling  waters  on — 
While  Fate  stood  watching  on  the  shore 

And  numbered  all  the  moments  gone — 

Where  hath  the  morning  splendour  flown 

Which  danced  upon  that  crystal  stream  ? 
Where  are  the  joys  to  childhood  known, 

When  life  is  an  enchanted  dream  ? 
Enveloped  in  the  starless  night 

Which  destiny  hath  overspread 
Enrolled  upon  that  trackless  flight, 

Where  the  dark  wing  of  Time  had  sped. 

Oh  !  thus  hath  life  its  even  tide 

Of  sorrow,  loneliness  and  grief; 
And  thus,  divested  of  its  pride, 

It  withers  like  the  yellow  leaf! 
Oh  !  such  is  life's  autumnal  bower, 

When  plundered  of  its  summer  bloom! 
And  such  is  life's  autumnal  hour, 

Which  heralds  man  unto  the  tomb. 
JYeu>-  York  Advertiser. 


THE   HALL  OF   EBLTS.* 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

THEY  took  their  way  (Vatliek  and  his  young  bride, 
The  sweet  Nouronihar)  through  summer  fields 
Of  flowers — by  sparkling  rivers — fountains  that 
Splash'd  o'er  the  turf — by  palm  and  tamarisk  trees- 

»  Vide,  Beckford's  History  of  the  Caliph  Vatliek. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  35 

And  whore  the  dark  pines  talked  to  solitudes; 
And  oft  beguiled  the  way  with  amorous  songs, 
Kisses  and  looks  voluptuous  ;  and  they  quaffed 
At  mid-day  iced  waters,  which  had  grown 
Cool  in  the  valley  of  Roenabad  : — One  thing 
Did  intervene  to  mar  those  quiet  hours  ; — 
Which  was  ambition. 

But  these  days  passed  by: 

And  then  they  journeyed  among  perilous  sands, 
Which  the  hot  blast  of  the  desert  swept  at  times 
To  figures  columnar  ;  these  subsiding,  left 
Open  to  view  the  wide  horizon,  where 
Lifting  their  heads,  like  mountains,  to  the  skies, 
'Rose  the  dark  towers  of  Jstakar. — The  moon 
Hid  her  pale  face  eclipsed,  and  sore  afraid 
Lest  that  the  baleful  atmosphere  might  shroud 
Her  light  for  ever  ;  and  interlunar  stars 
Shrank  and  grew  dim,  as  when  the  morning  shows 
His  gray  eye  in  the  East.     Forward  they  passed 
'Midst  crumbling  walls,  and  shaking  minarets, 
Where  even  the  ivy  grew  not,  and  at  last 
Stood  'neath  the  mighty  palace  of  those  kings 
Who  ruled  before  the  flood.     It  seemed  as  built 
For  all  eternity;  and  its  pillars  threw 
On  the  black  platform,  long,  large  lines  of  shadow, 
That  lay  upon  the  marble,  like  to  things 
Substantial — Countless  and  sky-touching  towers 
('  Whose  architecture  was  unknown  amidst 
The  records  of  the  earth')  stood  there,  like  that 
Vast  pile  our  ancestry  once  dared  to  raise 
In  old  Chaldea,  whence  they  met  the  wrath 
Of  God,  and  nature's  own  sweet  language  fled 
The  lips  of  men  for  ever.     Silence  reigned  ; 
And  glimmering  darkness  in  the  middle  air 
Brooded,  but  shifting  aye  her  shadowy  wings, 
Let  horror  creep  between,  and  doubtful  light; 
And  chill,  sepulchral  airs,  that  had  no  sound, 
Touched  the  pale  cheek  of  young  Nouronihar  : 
And  Vathek  felt  his  heart  grow  cold,  and  stayed 


36  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

His  breath  to  listen,  and  he  grasped  hard 
Her  trembling  hand  for  mere  companionship. 

The  stars  now  shone  anew  ;  and  right  against 

The  palace,  carved  curiously,  were  seen 

Leopards  and  winged  hypogrifTs,  and  shapes 

Unknown  but  to  the  bottoms  of  the  deep, 

And  there,  by  all  sea-monsters  that  we  fear, 

Dreaded,  and  left  alone  ;  above  these  forms 

Were  traced  mysterious  characters,  that  did  yield 

A  welcome  to  the  pair.     Scarce  had  they  read 

When  from  amongst  the  ruins  came  a  sound 

Like  anguish,  and  the  yawning  ground  gave  out 

Blue  subterranean  fires,  that  showed  a  door 

Whose  barred  labyrinths  led  to  Hell. — There  stood 

The  dwarfed  Indian,  grinning  like  a  fiend: 

'  Welcome  !'  he  cried,  *  Both  welcome  !  Ye  are  come 

To  see  the  Prince  of  morning  !  Ye  deserve 

To  see,  and  ye  shall  see  him.'     Then  he  touched 

The  charmed  lock,  'round  which,  invisibly, 

A  hundred  watchful  demons  wheeled,  and  kept 

Sacred  the  homes  of  starry  Eblis. — Wide 

Jt  opened  with  a  horrid  sound,  and  shut 

(When  Vathek  and  his  bride  had  entered  there) 

'Midst  laughs,  and  shrieks  exulting,  like  the  noise 

Of  mountainous  thunder,  or  the  withering  voice 

Of  him  who  from  Vesuvius  calls  abroad 

In  madness,  and  casts  out  his  blazing  foam 

Like  rivers  toward  the  sea. — 

At  last  they  saw 

The  Hall  of  Eblis:  vaulted  'twas  and  high 
So  none  might  mark  the  roofs!     The  pillars  that 
Stood  like  supporting  giants,  verged  away 
In  long  innumerable  avenues,  but 
Met  at  a  point  bright  as  the  sun,  when  he 
Looks  flaming  on  the  sands  of  Palestine. 
Each  column  bore  a  different  character, 
And  by  the  lambent  flames  that  played  about 
Like  snakes,  and  pointed  their  ethereal  spires 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  37 

Towards  the  stupendous  capitals  (which  seemed 

Wrought  in  the  finer  times  of  Greece,  when  men 

Struck  armed  Pallas  from  a  senseless  stone 

To  life,  and  shaped  those  matchless  Deities, 

Venus,  and  stern  Apollo,  and  the  rest) 

Strange  letters  might  be  seen — their  import  known 

To  none  but  the  immortals. — The  sad  pair 

Traversed  a  scene  of  luxury  and  wo  ; 

They  trod  on  gold  and  flowers,  while  from  the  ground 

Voluptuous  odours  steamed,  whose  breath  was  sweet 

As  her's  whom  story  fabled  once  the  queen 

Of  beauty;  there  saffron,  and  citron  boughs, 

Cedar,  and  sweet  perfuming  sandal  woods 

Were  burning ;  and  distilled  and  fragrant  waters 

Sparkled  in  crystal ; — -but  around  them  stalked 

Figures  like  men — ^all  silent — with  despair 

On  every  face,  and  each  did  press  his  hand 

Against  his  heart,  and  shunned  his  fellow  wretch. 

Upon  a  globe  of  fire  sat  Eblis.     He 
Was  prince  of  all  the  spirits  that  rebelled 
'Gainst  God  and  met  perdition.     He  was  young 
Still ;  and,  but  that  some  pride  burned  in  his  eye, 
You  might  have  pitied  him.     His  flowing  hair, 
Streaming  like  sunbeams,  told  he  must  have  been 
An  angel  once,  and  fair,  and  beautiful; 
Nay,  in  his  fallen  station,  he  retained 
A  relic  of  his  old  nobility  : 

And  though  he  fell,  you  would  have  said  he  fell 
For  aiming  at — >a  world.     '  Creatures,'  he  said, 
'  Creatures  of  clay  !  I  number  ye  amongst 
My  subjects  and  adorers :   Live  ye  here 
For  ever,  and  for  ever.' — Then  his  orb, 
Receding  from  the  presence  of  the  damned, 
Shrunk  to  a  point  of  light,  and  as  it  shrunk 
The  hearts  of  his  believers  withered,  and  burned 
Internally  (as  he  had  left  behind 
A  portion  of  his  fire) — and  on  their  souls 
Came  darkness  and  dismay :  arid  all  knew  then 
The  unconsuming  flame  was  come  ;  and  each 
4 


38  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Hated  himself  and  fellow. — Thus  they  lived 
For  ages  and  for  ages,  a  sad  prey 
To  fires  perpetual — and  endless  fear — 
Sorrow  although  they  loved  not — hot  desires, 
That  never  could  he  quelled — hunger  and  thirst — 
Fierce  jealousy — and  groundless  doubt — arid  hate — 
And  blasting  envy — and  ('midst  other  ills) 
Sense  of  contempt  in  others. — Thus  they  lived: 
And  not  one  creature  ever  after  knew 
What  'twas  to — hope. 
Literary  Gazette. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    CHURCH-YARD    OF    RICHMOND, 
YORKSHIRE. 

BY    HERBERT   KNOWJ.ES. 

It  i?  good  for  us  to  be  here  :  if  thou  wilt,  let  us  make  here  three 
Tabernacles,  one  for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for  Elias. 

ST.  MATTHEW. 

METHINKS  it  is  good  to  be  here, 

If  thou  wilt  let  us  build — but  for  whom? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear  ; 

But  the  shadows  of  Eve  that  encompass  with  gloom 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     Ah  no  ! 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away, — 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 
In  a  dark  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty?     Ah  no  !  she  forgets 
The  charms,  which  She  wielded  before  ; 
Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 
The  skin  that  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  th    tint  which  it  wore. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 
The  trappings,  which  dizcn  the  proud  ? 

Alas!  they  are  all  laid  aside, 
And  here's  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allowed 
Save  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of  the  shroud. 

To  Riches?     Alas,  'tis  in  vain  ; 
Who  hid  in  their  turns  have  been  hid  ; 
The  treasures  are  squandered  again  ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid 
Save  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin  lid. 

To  the  pleasures,  which  Mirth  can  afford, 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer? 

All !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ! 
But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 
Ah,  no  !     They  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above  : 

Friends,  brothers  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by  side 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow  ? — The  dead  cannot  grieve  ; 
Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 

Which  Compassion  itself  could  relieve. 
Ah  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  or  fear, 
Peace  !  peace  !  is  the  watch  word,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known. 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  ! 
Beneath  the  cold  head,  and  around  the  dark  stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  ! 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  ensures  it  fulfilled  ; 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice, 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he  rose  to  the  skies. 

Carlisle?*  Grammar  Schools. 


40  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  LAST  DAY. 

BT   WILLIAM   BECKFORD,   ESa. 

HARK  !  Heard  ye  not  that  deep,  appalling  sound? 
Tremble  !  for  lo  !  the  vexed  affrighted  ground 
Heaves  strong  in  dread  convulsion, — streams  of  fire 
Burst  from  the  'vengeful  sky — a  voice  of  ire 
Proclaims,  '  Ye  guilty  wait  your  final  doom  : 
No  more  the  silent  refuge  of  the  tomb  [reigns,- — 

Shall  screen  your  crimes,  your  frailties.'     Conscience 
Earth  needs  no  other  sceptre  ; — what  remains 
Beyond  her  fated  limits,  dare  not  tell ; — 
Eternal  Justice  !  Judgment!  Heaven!  Hell! 
Britten's  Fonthill  Mbeij. 


A   REFLECTION. 

LIKE  some  faint  light  that  shines  along  the  deep, 
Joy  to  the  watchful — peace  to  those  who  sleep — 
Its  blaze  expanding,  as  each  heart  draws  near 
The  home  where  sparkles  every  smile  that's  dear, 
'Till  from  its  splendour,  welcomed  in  at  last — 
Fades  all  reflection  on  the  gloomy  past ! 
So  in  its  birth  glows  man's  pale  beam  of  life, 
The  spark  of  sorrow,  then  the  flame  of  strife — 
Dazzling  awhile,  until  its  glare  be  spent 
On  thoughts  of  madness,  and  of  dark  intent; — 
Next, — -a  bright  beacon  on  his  troubled  sea — 
Bursting  at  length  into  Eternity  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  41 


THE  MOSSY   SEAT. 


BY    J.    M01R,   ESQ. 

THE  landscape  hath  not  lost  its  look  ; 

Still  rushes  on  the  sparkling  river  ; — 
Nor,  hath  the  gloominess  forsook 

These  granite  crags,  that  frown  for  ever; 
Still  hangs,  around,  the  shadowy  wood, — 
Whose  sounds  but  murmur  solitude  ; 
The  raven's  plaint,  the  linnet's  song. 

The  stock-dove's  coo,  in  grief  repining, 
In  mingled  echoes  steal  along  ; 

The  setting  sun  is  brightly  shining, 
And  clouds  above,  and  hills  below, 
Are  burning  in  his  golden  glow  ! 

It  is  not  meet — it  is  not  fit — 

Though  fortune  all  our  hopes  hath  thwarted, 
Whilst  on  the  very  stone  I  sit, 

Where  first  we  met,  and  last  we  parted, 
That  absent  from  my  soul  should  be 
The  thought  that  loves  and  looks  to  thee  ! 
Each  happy  hour  that  we  have  proved, 

While  love's  delicious  converse  blended, 
As  'neath  the  twilight  star  we  roved, 

Unconscious  where  our  progress  tended,- 
St-ill  brings  my  mind  a  soft  relief; 
And  bids  it  love  '  the  joys  of  grief.' 

What  soothing  recollections  throng, 
Presenting  many  a  mournful  token, 

That  heart's  remembrance  to  prolong, 

Which  then  was  blest— but  now  is  broken  ! 

I  cannot — Oh  !  hast  thou  forgot 

Our  early  loves — this  hallowed  spot  ? 

I  almost  think  I  see  thee  stand  ! — 

I  almost  dream  I  hear  thee  speaking  !— 
4* 


42  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

I  feel  the  pressure  of  thy  hand  ! 

Thy  living  glance  in  fondness  seeking, — 
Here,  all  apart — by  all  unseen — 
Thy  form  upon  my  arm  to  lean  ! 

Though  beauty  bless  the  landscape  still, 

Though  woods  surround,  and  waters  lave  it, 
My  heart  feels  not  the  vivid  thrill, 

Which  long  ago  thy  presence  gave  it. 
Mirth, — music, — friendship,  have  no  tone 
Like  that,  which  with  thy  voice  hath  flown  ! 
And  Memory  only  now  remains 

To  whisper  things  that  once  delighted  ; 
Still — still  I  love  to  tread  these  plains, — 

To  seek  this  sacred  haunt  benighted — 
And  feel  a  something  sadly  sweet 
In  resting  on  this  MOSSY  SEAT. 

Blackivood's  Magazine. 


SONNET. 

BY    WIL'LIAM    WORDSWORTH,    ESQ. 

NOT  love,  nor  war,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 
Of  civil  conflicts?,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change. 
And  duty  struggling  with  afflictions  strange, 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell ; 
But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwell, 
There  also  is  the  muse  not  loth  to  range 
Watching  the  blue  smoke  of  the  elmy  grange 
Skyward  ascending  from  the  twilight  dell ; 
Meek  aspirations  please  her  lone  endeavour, 
And  sage  content  and  placid  melancholy, 
She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a  chrystal  river, 
Diaphonous,  because  it  travels  slowly  : 
Soft  is  the  music  that  would  please  for  ever, 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  43 

A  FAREWELL  TO  ENGLAND. 

BY    JOSEPH    RITCHIE,    ESQ. 

THY  chalky  cliffs  are  fading  from  my  view, 
Our  bark  is  dancing  gaily  on  the  sea, 
I  sigh  while  yet  I  may,  and  say  adieu, 
Albion,  thou  jewel  of  the  earth,  to  thee, 
Whose  fields  first  fed  my  childish  fantasy, 
Whose  mountains  were  my  boyhood's  wild  delight, 
Whose  rocks,  and  woods,  and  torrents  were  to  me 
The  food  of  my  soul's  youthful  appetite, — 
Were  music  to  my  ear,  a  blessing  to  my  sight. 

I  never  dreamt  of  beauty,  but,  behold, 
Straightway  thy  daughters  flashed  upon  my  eye ; 
I  never  mused  on  valour,  but  the  old 
Memorials  of  thy  haughty  chivalry 
Filled  my  expanding  soul  with  ectasy  ; 
And  when  1  thought  on  wisdom  and  the  crown 
The  muses  give,  with  exultation  high, 
I  turned  to  those  whom  thou  hast  called  thine  own, 
Who  fill  the  spacious  earth  with  their  and  thy  renown. 

When  my  young  heart,  in  life's  gay  morning  hour, 
At  beauty's  summons,  beat  a  wild  alarm, 
Her  voice  came  to  me  from  an  English  bower, 
And  English  were  the  smiles  that  wrought  the  charm: 
And  if,  when  wrapt  asleep  on  Fancy's  arm, 
Visions  of  bliss  my  riper  years  have  cheered, 
Of  home,  and  love's  fireside,  and  greetings  warm, 
For  one  by  absence  and  long  toil  endeared, 
The  fabric  of  my  hopes  on  thee  hath  still  been  reared. 

Peace  to  thy  smiling  hearths,  when  I  am  gone  ; 
And  mayest  thou  still  thy  ancient  dowry  keep, 
To  be  a  mark  to  guide  the  nations  on, 
Like  a  tall  watch-tower  flashing  o'er  the  deep ; — 


44  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Still  mayest  thou  bid  the  sorrowers  cease  to  weep, 
And  dart  the  beams  of  Truth  athwart  the  night 
That  wraps  a  slumbering  world,  till,  from  their  sleep 
Starting,  remotest  nations  see  the  light, 
And  earth  be  blest  beneath  the  buckler  of  thy  might. 

Strong  in  thy  strength  I  go,  and  wheresoe'er 
JMy  steps  may  wander,  may  I  ne'er  forget 
All  that  I  owe  to  thee  ;  and  O  may  ne'er 
JMy  frailties  tempt  me  to  abjure  that  debt ! 
And  what,  if  far  from  thee  my  star  must  set, 
Hast  thou  not  hearts  that  shall  with  sadness  hear 
The  tale,  and  some  fair  cheeks  that  shall  be  wet, 
And  some  bright  eyes,  in  which  the  swelling  tear 
Shall  start  for  him  who  sleeps  in  Afric's  deserts  drear. 

Yet  I  will  not  profane  a  charge  like  mine, 
With  melancholy  bodings,  nor  believe, 
That  a  voice,  whispering  ever  in  the  shrine 
Of  iny  own  heart,  spake  only  to  deceive  ; 
I  trust  its  promise,  that  I  go  to  weave 
A  wreath  of  palms,  entwined  with  many  a  sweet 
Perennial  flower,  which  time  shall  not  bereave 
Of  all  its  fragrance, — that  I  yet  shall  greet 
Once  more  the  ocean  queen,  and  throw  it  at  her  feet. 
London  Magazine. 


THE   EXCHANGE. 

BY    S.    T.    COLERIDGE,    ESQ. 

WE  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I,- 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping  ; 

I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why, 
But  oh  !  I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain  ; 

I  went  and  shook  like  any  reed  ! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man — in  vain  ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

ON  PAINTING. 

BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL,    ESQ. 

O,  thou  !  by  whose  expressive  art 

Her  perfect  image  Nature  sees 
In  union  with  the  Graces,  start, 

And  sweeter  by  reflection  please! 
In  whose  creative  hand  the  hues 

Stolen  from  yon  orient  rainbow  shine ! 
I  bless  thee,  Promethean  Muse, 

And  hail  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 

Possessing  more  than  mortal  power  ! 

Persuasive  more  than  poet's  tongue  ! 
Whose  lineage  in  a  raptured  hour, 

From  Love,  the  lord  of  Nature,  sprung ! 
Does  Hope  her  high  possession  meet  ? 

Is  joy  triumphant, — sorrow  flown  ? 
Sweet  is  the  trance,  the  tremour  sweet, 

When  all  we  love  is  all  our  own. 

But  hush,  thou  pulse  of  pleasure  dear; 

Slow,  throbbing,  cold,  I  feel  thee  part ; 
Long  absence  plants  a  pang  severe, 

Or  death  inflicts  a  keener  dart ; 
Then  for  a  beam  of  joy,  to  light 

In  Memory's  sad  and  wakeful  eye  ; 
To  banish  from  the  noon  of  night 

Her  dreams  of  deeper  agony. 

Shall  song  its  witching  cadence  roll ; 

Yea,  even  the  tenderest  air  repeat, 
That  breathed  when  soul  was  knit  to  soul, 

And  heart  to  heart  responsive  beat ; 
What  visions  rise  to  charm,  to  melt! 

The  lost,  the  loved,  the  dead  are  near ; 
Oh,  hush  that  strain  too  deeply  felt, 

And  cease  that  solace  too  severe. 


45 


46  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

But  thou  serenely  silent  art, 

By  heaven  and  love  both  taught  to  lend 
A  milder  solace  to  the  heart — 

The  sacred  image  of  a  friend  ; 
All  is  not  lost  if  yet  possest 

For  me  that  sweet  memorial  shine, 
If  close  and  closer  to  my  breast 

I  hold  the  image  all  divine. 

Or  gazing  through  luxuriant  tears, 

IVlelt  over  the  departed  form, 
Till  death's  cold  bosom  half  appears 

With  life,  and  speech,  and  spirit  warm ; 
She  looks,  she  lives,  this  tranced  hour 

Her  bright  eye  seems  a  purer  gem 
Than  sparkles  on  the  throne  of  power, 

Or  Glory's  starry  diadem. 

Yes,  Genius,  yes  !  thy  mimic  aid 

A  treasure  to  my  soul  has  given, 
When  Beauty's  canonized  shade 

Smiles  through  the  sainted  hues  of  heaven. 
No  spectre  form  of  pleasure  fled, 

Thy  softening,  sweetening  tints  restore  ; 
For  thou  canst  give  us  back  the  dead, 

Even  in  the  loveliest  garb  she  wore. 

Then  blest  be  Nature's  guardian  muse, 

Whose  hand  her  polished  grace  redeems ; 
Whose  tablet  of  a  thousand  hues 

The  mirror  of  creation  seems  ; 
From  Love  began  thy  high  descent ; 

And  lovers  charmed  with  gifts  of  thine, 
Shall  bless  thee, — mutely  eloquent, — 

And  hail  thee  brightest  of  the  NINE  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  47 

NIGHT. 

BY    JAMES    MONTGOMERY,    ESQ. 

NIGHT  is  the  time  for  rest ; 

How  sweet  when  labours  close, 
To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 

The  curtain  of  repose; 
Stretch  the  tired  limbs  and  lay  the  head 
Upon  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  ; 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is  and  truth  that  seems 

Blend  in  fantastic  strife  ; 
Ah  !  visions  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 
That  poets  sang  or  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  ; 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory,  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 
Hopes  that  were  Angels  in  their  birth, 
But  perished  young,  like  things  on  earth  ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  ; 

On  ocean's  dark  expanse  ; 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 


48  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care ; 

Brooding  on  hours  mis-spent, 
To  see  the  spectre  of  Despair 

Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 
Like  Brutus  midst  his  slumbering  host 

Started  by  Caesar's  stalwart  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  muse  ; 

Then  from  the  eye  the  soul 
Takes  flight,  and  with  expanding  views, 

Beyond  the  starry  pole  ; 
Descries,  athwart  the  abyss  of  night, 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  ; 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away; 

So  will  his  follower  do  ; 
Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untroJ, 
And  hold  communion  there  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  death  ; 

When  all  around  is  peace, 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease, 
Think  of  heaven's  bliss  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends. — Such  death  be  mine ! 
Mermann's  '  Forget  Me  Not.' 


FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

THE  morn  that  ushered  thee  to  life,  my  child, 
Saw  thee  in  tears,  whilst  all  around  thee  smiled  ! 
When  summoned  hence  to  thy  eternal  sleep, 
Oh  may'st  thou  smile,  whilst  all  around  tbee  weep. 

E. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  49 

ODE, 
BY    LORD    BYRON. 

OH,  shame  to  thee,  Land  of  the  Gaul ! 

Oh,  shame  to  thy  children  and  thee  ! 
Unwise  in  thy  glory  and  base  in  thy  fall, 

How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be  ! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 

A  mockery  that  never  shall  die  ; 
The  curses  of  Hate  and  the  hisses  of  Scorn 

Shall  burthen  the  winds  of  thy  sky  ; 
And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin,  for  ever  be  hurled 
The  laughter  of  Triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  World. 

Oh,  where  is  thy  spirit  of  yore, 

The  spirit  that  breathed  in  thy  dead, 
When  gallantry's  star  was  the  beacon  before 

And  honour  the  passion  that  led  ! 
Thy  storms  have  awakened  their  sleep ; 

They  groan  from  the  place  of  their  rest, 
And  wrathi'ully  murmur,  and  sullenly  weep, 

To  see  the  foul  stain  on  thy  breast ; 
For  where  is  the  glory  they  left  thee  in  trust  ? — 
'Tis  scattered  in  darkness.     'Tis  trampled  in  dust ! 

Go  look  through  the  kingdoms  of  earth, 

From  Indus  all  round  to  the  Pole, 
And  something  of  goodness,  of  honour,  and  worth, 

Shall  brighten  the  sins  of  the  soul ; 
But  thou  art  alone  in  thy  shame  ! 

The  world  cannot  liken  thee  there  ; 
Abhorrence  and  vice  have  disfigured  thy  name 

Beyond  the  low  reach  of  compare; 
Stupendous  in  guilt,  ihou  shalt  lend  us,  through  time, 
A  proverb,  a  bye-word,  for  treachery  and  crime. 


While  conquest  illumined  his  sword, 
While  yet  in  his  prowess  he  stood, 
o 


50  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thy  praises  still  followed  the  steps  of  thy  Lord, 

And  welcomed  the  torrent  of  hlood  ; 
Though  tyranny  sat  on  his  crown, 
And  withered  the  nations  afar, 

Yet  bright  in  thy  view  was  that  Despot's  renown, 
Till  Fortune  deserted  his  car; 

T/ien,  back  from  the  Chieftain 'thou  slunkest  away — 

The  foremost  to  insult,  the  first  to  betray. 

Forgot  were  the  feats  he  had  done, 

The  toils  he  had  borne  in  thy  cause  ; 
Thou  turnedst  to  worship  a  new  rising  sun, 

And  to  waft  other  songs  of  applause  ; 
But  the  storm  was  beginning  to  lour, — 

Adversity  clouded  his  beam  ; 
Then  honour  and  faith  were  the  boast  of  an  hour, 

And  loyalty's  self  but  a  dream  ; 

To  him  thou  hadst  banished  thy  vows  were  restored, 
And  the  first  that  had  scoffed,  were  the  first  that  adored. 

What  tumult  thus  burthens  the  air  ! 

What  throng  thus  encircles  his  throne  ? 
'Tis  the  shout  of  delight ; — 'tis  the  millions  that  swear 

His  sceptre  shall  rule  them  alone. 
Reverses  shall  brighten  their  zeal; 

Misfortune  shall  hallow  his  name  ; 
And  the  world  that  pursues  him  shall  mournfully  feel 

How  quenchless  the  spirit  and  flame  [n*i'e, 

That  Frenchmen  will  breathe  when  their  hearts  are  on 
For  the  Hero  they  love,  and  the  Chief  they  admire. 

Their  hero  has  rushed  to  the  field, 

His  laurels  are  covered  with  shade, — 
But  where  is  the  spirit  that  never  should  yield, 

The  loyalty  never  to  fade ! 
In  a  moment  desertion  and  guile 
Abandoned  him  up  to  the  foe  ; 

The  dastards  that  flourished  and  grew  in  his  smile, 
Forsook  and  renounced  him  in  wo ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  51 

And  the  millions  that  swore  they  would  perish  to  save 
Behold  him  a  fugitive,  captive  and  slave. 

The  savage,  all  wild  in  his  glen, 

Is  nobler  and  better  than  thou  ! 
Thou  standest  a  wonder,  a  marvel  to  men ! 

Such  perfidy  blackens  thy  brow. 
If  thou  wert  the  place  of  my  birth, 

At  once  from  thy  arms  would  I  sever  ; 
I'd  fly  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 

And  quiet  thee  for  ever  and  ever  ; 
And  thinking  of  thee  in  my  long  after-years, 
Should  but  kindle  my  blushes  and  waken  my  tears. 

Oh,  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaul ! 

Oh,  shame  to  thy  children  and  thee ! 
Unwise  in  thy  glory  and  base  in  thy  fall, 
How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be  ! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 

A  mockery  that  never  shall  die  : 
The  curses  of  Hate  and  the  hisses  of  Scorn 

Shall  burthen  the  winds  of  thy  sky  ; 
And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be  hurled 
The  laughter  of  Triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  World. 
Examiner. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Do  any  thing  but  love  ;  or,  if  thou  lovest, 
And  art  a  Woman,  hide  thy  love  from  him 
Whom  thou  dost  worship  ;  never  let  him  know 
How  dear  he  is  ;  flit  like  a  bird  before  him, — 
Lead  him  from  tree  to  tree,  from  flower  to  flower; 
But  be  not  won,  or  thou  wilt,  like  that  bird 
When  caught  and  caged,  be  left  to  pine  neglected, 
And  perish  in  forgetfulness. 

L.  E.  L. 
Literary  Gazette. 


52  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  PARTING. 

BT    THR    REV.    G.    CROLY. 

THE  wind  was  wild,  the  sea  was  dark, 
The  lightning  flashed  above  ; — the  bark 
That  anchored  in  the  rocky  bay, 
Bathed  its  top  pennon  in  the  spray : 
Hollow  and  gloomy  as  the  grave, 
Rolled  to  the  shore  the  mighty  wave  ; 
Then  gathering  wild,  with  thundering  sweep, 
Flashed  its  white  foam-sheet  up  the  steep : — 
The  sight  was  terror — but  behind 
Shouts  of  pursuit  were  on  the  wind  ; 
Trumpet,  and  yell,  and  clash  of  shield, 
Told  where  the  human  hunters  wheeled 
Through  the  last  valley's  forest  glen  : 
Where,  Bertha,  was  thy  courage  then  ? 
She  cheered  her  warrior,  though  his  side 
Still  with  the  gushing  blood  was  dyed ; 
Up  the  rude  mountain-path,  her  hand 
Sustained  his  arm,  and  dragged  his  brand, 
Nor  shrank,  nor  sighed  ;  and  when  his  tread 
Paused  on  the  promontory's  head, 
She  smiled,  although  her  lip  was  pale 
As  the  torn  silver  of  his  mail. 

All  there  was  still. — The  shouts  had  past, 
Sunk  in  the  rushings  of  the  blast; 
Below,  the  vapour's  dark  gray  screen, 
Shut  out  from  view  the  long  ravine  ; 
Then  swept  the  circle  of  the  hill, 
Like  billows  round  an  ocean  isle. 
The  rays  the  parting  sunbeam  flung, 
In  white,  cold  radiance  on  them  hung  ; 
They  stood  upon  that  lonely  brow, 
Like  spirits  loosed  from  human  wo, 
And  pausing,  ere  they  spread  the  plume 
Above  that  waste  of  storm  and  gloom. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  53 

To  linger  there  was  death, — but  thore 

Was  that,  which  master's  death, — Despair, 

And  even  Despair's  high  master, — Love. 

Her  heart  was  like  her  form,  above 

The  storms,  the  stormier  thoughts  that  Earth 

Makes  the  dread  privilege  of  birth. 

Passion's  wild  flame  was  past,  but  he 

Who  pined  before  her  burning  eye, 

The  numbered  beatings  of  whose  heart 

Told,  on  that  summit  they  must  part — 

He  was  life,  soul,  and  world  to  her  : 

Beside  him,  what  had  she  to  fear? 

Life  had  for  her  nor  calm  nor  storm 

While  she  stood  gazing  on  that  form, 

Arid  clasped  his  hand,  though  lost  and  lone, — 

His  dying  hand, — but  all  her  own. 

She  knelt  beside  him,  on  her  knee 

She  raised  his  wan  cheek  silently : 

She  spoke  not,  sighed  not ;  to  his  breast, 

Her  own,  scarce  living  now,  was  prest, 

And  felt, — if  where  the  senses  reel, 

O'er  wrought — o'er  flooded — we  can  feel — 

The  thoughts,  that  when  they  cease  to  be, 

Leave  life  one  vacant  misery. — 

She  kissed  his  chilling  lip,  and  bore 

The  look,  that  told  her  all  was  o'er. 

The  echoes  of  pursuit  again 
Rolled  on  ; — she  gazed  upon  the  main  ; 
Then  seemed  the  mountain's  haughty  steep 
Too  humble  for  her  desperate  leap  ; 
Then  seemed  the  broad  and  bursting  wave 
Too  calm,  too  shallow,  for  her  grave. 
She  turned  her  to  the  dead  : — his  brow 
Once  more  she  gave  her  kiss  of  wo ; 
She  gave  his  cheek  one  bitter  tear, — 
The  last  she  had  for  passion  here — 
Then  to  the  steep  ! — Away  !  Away  ! 
To  the  whirlwind's  roar,  and  the  dash  of  the  spray. 
JVVtc    Time*. 

5* 


54  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 

IT  is  a  talc  that  many  songs  have  told, 

And  old,  if  tale  of  love  can  e'er  be  old  ; 

Yet  dear  to  me  this  lingering  o'er  the  fate 

Of  two  so  young,  so  true,  so  passionate  ! 

And  tliou,  the  idol  of  my  harp,  the  Soul 

Of  poetry,  to  me  my  hope,  my  whole 

Happiness  of  existence,  there  will  be 

Some  gentlest  tones  that  I  have  caught  from  thee  ! 

Will  not  each  heart- pulse  vibrate,  as  I  tell 

Of  faith  even  unto  death  unchangeable! 

LEANDER  and  his  HERO!  They  should  be, 

When  youthful  lovers  talk  of  constancy, 

Invoked.     Oh,  for  one  breath  of  softest  song, 

Such  as  on  summer  evenings  floats  along, 

To  murmur  low  their  history  !     Every  word 

That  whispers  of  them,  should  be  like  those  heard 

At  moonlight  casements,  when  the  awakened  maid 

Sighs  her  soft  answer  to  the  serenade. 

She  stood  beside  the  altar,  like  the  Queen, 

The  bright-eyed  Queen  that  she  was  worshipping1. 

Her  hair  was  bound  with  roses,  which  did  fling 

A  perfume  round,  for  she  that  morn  had  been 

To  gather  roses,  that  were  clustering  now 

Amid  the  shadowy  curls  upon  her  brow. 

One  of  the  loveliest  daughters  of  thy  land, 

Divinest  Greece!  that  taught  the  painter's  hand 

To  give  eternity  to  loveliness  ; 

One  of  those  dark-eyed  maids,  to  whom  belong 

The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  each  song 

Thy  poets  breathed,  for  it  was  theirs  to  bless 

With  life  the  pencil  and  the  lyre's  soft  dreams, 

Giving  reality  to  visioned  gleams 

Of  bright  divinities.     Amid  the  crowd 

That  iu  the  presence  of  young  HERO  bowed, 

Was  one  who  knelt  with  fond  idolatry, 

As  if  in  homage  to  some  deity, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  55 

Gazing  upon  her  as  each  gaze  lie  took 

Must  he  the  very  last — that  intense  look 

That  none  but  lovers  give,  when  they  would  trace 

On  their  hearts'  tablets  some  adored  lace. 

The  radiant  Priestess  from  the  temple  past ; 

Yet  there  LEANDKR  staid,  to  catch  the  last 

Wave  of  her  fragrant  hair,  the  last  low  fall 

Of  her  white  feet,  so  light  and  musical  ; 

And  then  he  wandered  silent  to  a  grove, 

To  feed  upon  the  full  heart's  ecstasy: 

The  moon  was  sailing  o'er  the  deep  blue  sky, 

Each  moment  shedding  fuller  light  above, 

As  the  pale  crimson  from  the  west  departs. 

Ah,  this  is  just  the  hour  for  passionate  hearts 

To  linger  over  dreams  of  happiness, 

All  of  young  love's  delicious  loveliness  ! 

The  cypress  waved  upon  the  evening  air 

Like  the  long  tresses  of  a  beauty's  hair; 

And  close  beside  was  laurel,  and  the  pale 

Snow  blossoms  of  the  myrtle  tree,  so  frail 

And  delicate,  like  woman  ;  'mid  the  shade 

Rose  the  white  pillars  of  the  colonnade 

Around  the  marble  temple,  where  the  Queen 

Of  Love  was  worshipped,  and  there  too  was  seen, 

Where  the  grove  ended,  the  so  glorious  sea 

Now  in  its  azure  sleep's  tranquillity. 

lie  saw  a  white  veil  wave, — his  heart  beat  high  ; 

He  heard  a  voice,  and  then  a  low  toned  sigh. 

Gently  he  stole  amid  the  shading  trees  : — 

It  is  his  love — his  HERO  that  he  sees  ! 

Her  hand  lay  motionless  upon  the  lute, 

Which  thrilled  beneath  the  touch  ;  her  lip  was  mute, 

Only  her  eyes  were  speaking;  dew  and  light 

There  blended  like  the  hyacinth,  when  night 

Has  wept  upon  its  bosom  ;  she  did  seem 

As  consciousness  were  lost  in  some  sweet  dream : — 

That  dream  was  love  !     Blushes  were  on  her  cheek, 

And  what,  save  love,  do  blushes  ever  speak  ? 


56  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Her  lips  were  parted,  as  one  moment  more 
And  then  the  heart  would  yield  its  hidden  store. 
'Twas  so  at  length  her  thought  found  utterance, 
Light,  feeling,  flashed  from  her  awakened  glance  ;— 
She  paused — then  gazed  on  one  pale  star  above, 
Poured  to  her  lute  the  burning  words  of  love  ! 
LEANDER  heard  his  name  !     How  more  than  sweet 
That  moment,  as  he  knelt  at  HERO'S  feet, 
Breathing  his  passion  in  each  thrilling  word 
Only  by  lovers  said,  by  lovers  heard. 

That  night  they  parted — but  they  met  again. 

The  blue  sea  rolled  between  them — but  in  vain  ! 

LEANDER  had  no  fear — he  cleft  the  wave. — 

What  is  the  peril  fond  hearts  will  not  brave  ! 

Delicious  were  their  moonlight  wanderings, 

Delicious  were  the  kind,  the  gentle  things 

Each  to  the  other  breathed  ;  a  starry  sky, 

Music  and  flowers, — this  is  love's  luxury  : 

The  measure  of  its  happiness  is  full, 

When  all  around  like  it  is  beautiful. 

There  were  sweet  birds  to  count  the  hours ;  and  roses, 

Like  those,  which  on  a  blushing  cheek  reposes  ; 

Violets  as  fresh  as  violets  could  be  ; 

Stars  over  head,  with  each  a  history 

Of  love  told  by  its  light ;  and  waving  trees, 

And  perfumed  breathings  upon  every  breeze  : 

These  were  around  them  when  they  met.     And  day, 

Though  each  was  from  the  other  far  away, 

Had  still  its  pleasant  memories  ;  they  might 

Think  what  they  had  forgotten  the  last  night, 

And  make  the  tender  thing  they  had  to  say 

More  warm  and  welcome  from  its  short  delay. 

And  then  their  love  was  secret ! — Oh,  it  is 

Most  exquisite  to  have  a  fount  of  bliss 

Sacred  to  us  alone,  no  other  eye 

Conscious  of  our  enchanted  mystery, 

Ourselves  the  sole  possessors  of  a  spell 

Giving  us  happiness  unutterable  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  57 

I  would  compare  this  secrecy  and  shade 

To  that  fair  island,  whither  Love  conveyed 

His  Psyche,  where  she  lived  remote  from  all : 

Life  one  long,  lone  and  lovely,  festival  ; 

But  when  the  charm,  concealment's  charm  was  known, 

Oh  then  farewell  to  Love,  for  Love  was  flown  ! 

Love's  wings  are  all  too  delicate  to  bear 

The  open  gaze,  the  common  sun  and  air. 

There  have  been  roses  round  my  lute  ;  but  now 
I  must  forsake  them  for  the  cypress  bough  : 
Now  is  my  tale  of  tears. — One  night,  the  sky, 
As  if  with  passion,  darkened  angrily, 
And  gusts  of  wind  swept  o'er  the  troubled  main 
Like  hasty  threats,  and  then  were  calm  again  ; 
That  night,  young  HERO  by  her  beacon  kept 
Her  silent  watch,  and  blamed  the  night,  and  wept, 
And  scarcely  dared  to  look  upon  the  sky  : 
Yet  lulling  still  her  fond  anxiety — 
With  *  Surely  in  such  a  storm  he  cannot  brave, 
If  but  for  my  sake  only,  wind  and  wave.' 
At  length  Aurora  led  young  Day  and  blushed  ; 
In  her  sweet  presence  sea  and  sky  were  hushed. 
What  is  there  beauty  cannot  charm  ?     tier  power 
Is  felt  alike,  in  storm  and  sunshine  hour; 
And  light  and  soft  the  breeze,  which  waved  the  veil 
Of  HERO,  as  she  wandered,  lone  and  pale, 
Her  heart  sick  with  its  terror,  and  her  eye 
Roving  in  tearful  dim  uncertainty. 
Not  long  uncertain, — she  marked  something  glide, 
Shadowy  and  indistinct,  upon  the  tide — 
On  rushed  she  in  that  desperate  energy, 
Which  only  has  to  know,  and,  knowing,  die — 
It  was  LEA.NDER  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


58  THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 

LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    THE    FIELD    OF    WATERLOO. 

YE  are  gone  to  your  narrow  beds, 

Ye  forms  of  the  martyred  Brave  ! 

The  green  grass  sod  springs  o'er  your  heads, 

And  the  wind  blows  round  your  grave. 

But  the  green  turf  that  blooms  above 

Is  watered  by  the  tears  of  love  ; 

And  the  wild  wind  that  wanders  by, 

Is  mingled  with  affection's  sigh. 

Oh  !  When  ye  sank  on  your  bed  of  death, 
No  gentle  form  hung  over  you  ; 
No  fond  eye  caught  your  parting  breath, 
Or  shrunk  in  anguish  from  the  view  ! 
But  o'er  you,  in  that  hour  of  fate, 
Bent  the  dark  Gaul's  revengeful  form  ; 
And  the  stern  glance  of  ruthless  hate 
Gleamed,  dreadful,  'mid  the  hurrying  storm. 

No  mourning  dirge  did  o'er  you  swell, 
Nor  winding  sheet  your  limbs  enclosed  ; 
For  you  was  tolled  no  passing  bell ; 
No  tomb  was  raised  where  you  reposed, 
For  your  bed  of  death  was  the  battle-ground, 
'Twas  there  they  heaped  your  funeral  mound, 
And  all  unhallowed  was  your  grave, 
Save  by  the  ashes  of  the  brave. 

Then  to  the  warriors'  memory, 
A  monument  of  love  we'll  raise  ; 
And  veneration's  heart-felt  sigh 
Shall  waft  their  fame  to  distant  days. 
Daughters  of  Albion  !  swell  the  strain  ! 
More  loudly  raise  the  funeral  song, 
And,  wide  o'er  all  the  fatal  plain, 
The  record  of  their  deeds  prolong  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  59 

Ye  fixed,  oh  ye  brave  !  when  for  us  ye  died, 
On  every  heart  an  endless  claim  ; 
When  ye  sank  in  the  battle's  blood-red  tide, 
Ye  bought  by  your  death  a  deathless  name  ; 
More  great  than  the  warriors  of  ages  gone, — 
More  great  than  the  heroes  of  Marathon  : 
They  from  one  land,  a  tyrant  hurled; — 
Ye  crushed  the  tyrant  of  the  world. 
The  hour  that  stayed  your  course  for  ever, 
Checked  many  a  gay  heart's  joyous  swell 
Sweet  hopes  were  nipt  to  blossom  never, 
When,  smote  in  Glory's  lap,  you  fell. 

The  patriot  to  the  hero's  claim, 
Bows  his  proud  soul,  with  grief  opprest ; 
But  there  are  those,  with  whom  his  name 
Is  still  more  loved,  more  fondly  blest ; 
For  wheresoe'er  we  cast  our  eyes, 
This  wide  extended  plain  around, 
The  Father,  Brother,  Husband  lies 
Beneath  the  undulating  mound. 

How  many  an  eye,  ye  truly  brave  ! 
Has  thanked  you  for  the  lives  you  gave  ! 
Ye  fondly  loved  !  how  many  a  tear, 
Has  witnessed  to  your  virtues  here  ! 
Call  not  the  warrior's  grave  unblest, 
Though  'mid  this  silent  solitude, 
The  gray  stone  rise  not  o'er  his  breast, 
Nor  holy  pile  may  here  be  viewed. 

There  is  a  charm  more  sweet, — more  pure 
Than  human  art  has  ever  thrown  ; 
Yes,  there  are  records  more  secure 
Than  marble  bust,  or  sculptured  stone  ; — 
The  gentle  sigh  of  sorrowing  love, 
The  hapless  mourner's  silent  tear, 
Shall  here  that  better  guerdon  prove, 
That  holier  calm,  shall  whisper  here. 


GO  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

When  Egypt's  tombs  shall  all  be  rent, 
And  earth's  proud  temples  swept  away, 
Your  deeds, — a  deathless  monument ! — 
Shall  guard  your  glory  from  decay. 
Courier, 


A   FAREWELL. 

BY  LORD   BYRON. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 

Yet  ere  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here's  a  sigh  for  those  I  love, 
And  a  smile  for  those  I  hate, 

And,  whatever  sky's  above, 
Here's  a  heart  for  any  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
It  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  it  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirits  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

In  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  to  thee  and  thine, 
And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  ! 
Morning  Chronicle. 


THE     POETICAL    ALBUM.  61 


STANZAS 

ADDRESSED     TO     A    LADY,     ON     READING     ROMEO    AND 
JULIET. 

FROM   THE    GERMAN. 

OF  love  and  sorrow,  'tis  a  peerless  tale  ! — 
Then  press  it  softly  to  thy  gentle  breast ; 
I'll  share  the  fear  that  makes  thy  pure  cheek  pale  ; 

I'll  guess  the  wish  that  may  not  be  confessed. 
Unhappy  pair  ! — And  yet  to  them  was  given 
That  earthly  joy,  which  tasteth  most  of  heaven. 
Oh  !  sweet  and  hitter,  let  our  inixt  tears  flow, 
Where,  on  the  grave  of  Love,  the  drooping  violets  grow. 

To  mortals  there  is  given  a  fleeting  life  : — 

A  life  ! — Ah  !  no  ;  a  wild,  vain,  hurrying  dream  ! — 
A  tempest  of  pride — passion — sin — and  strife  ! 
A  deep,  dark,  restless,  ever-foaming  stream ! 
When  fortune  lifts  us  high,  or  sinks  us  low, 
We  feel  the  motion — know  not  where  we  go ; 
Love  only,  like  the  oil  upon  the  sea, 
Gives  to  man's  tossing  soul  repose  and  liberty. 

'Tis  true,  that  they  who  love,  are  seldom  born 
To  a  smooth  destiny. — Love  buds  in  peace, 
But  foulest  wizards  in  the  air  have  sworn 

To  blast  its  beauty  ere  the  leaves  increase. 
The  lovers  dare  not  look — fiends  watch  their  eyes  ; — 
They  dare  not  speak — fiends  intercept  their  sighs  ; — 
A  spell  is  on  them — mute — o'er  mastering; —        [wing. 
Dumb  sorrow  o'er  them  waves  her  dark,  depressing 

But  let  the  faint  heart  yield  him  as  he  may, 

Danger  sits  powerless  on  Love's  steady  breast ; 

The  lovers  shrink  not  in  the  evil  day  ; — 
They  are  afflicted — but  are  not  opprest. 
6 


62  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

To  die  together,  or  victorious  live — 

That  first  and  holiest  vow,  'tis  theirs  to  give  ; 

United  ! — Though  in  fetters — they  are  free  ! —          [be  ! 

They  care  not  though  the  grave  their  bridal  bed  should 

It  may  be,  that  if  love's  expanding  flower 

Is  forced  to  close  before  the  storm's  keen  breath, 
That  closing  may  protract  the  blooming  hour, 

Which  is  so  short  in  all  that  suffers  death. 
The  silence,  and  the  sorrow,  and  the  pain, 
May  nourish  that,  which  they  attack  in  vain. 
The  lowly  flame  burns  longest. — Humble  sadness 
Is  kindlier  to  love's  growth  than  free  unvaried  gladness. 

But  oh  !  how  glorious  shone  their  ruling  star, 

Which  carried  them  with  budding  loves  to  heaven  ; 
Whom  angels  welcomed  in  bright  realms  afar, 

With  a  full  cup,  which  scarce  to  taste  was  given, 
While  any  remnant  of  terrestrial  sin 
Had  power  to  stain  the  holy  draught  within  ! 
They  died: — Young  love  stood  by  them  calmly  sighing, 
And  fanned,  with  his  soft  wing,  the  terrors  of  their  dying. 

Read  not  of  Juliet,  and  her  Romeo, 

With  tragic  trembling,  and  uplifted  hair  ; 
Be  mild,  fair  maid,  and  gentle  in  thy  woe, 

As  in  their  death  were  that  most  innocent  pair. 
Upon  the  tomb  o'  the  Capulets  there  gleams 
No  torch  light — but  a  moon  of  tender  beams. 
Then  hate  not  love,  because  a  Juliet  died, 
But  seek  to  sleep,  like  her,  by  a  true  lover's  side. 
Blackwood^s  Magazine.  A.  W.  3. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  63 


TO  THE   SPIRIT  OF  POESY. 

O,  Holy  Spirit !  oft  when  eve 

Hath  slowly  o'er  the  western  sky 
Her  gorgeous  pall  begun  to  weave 

Of  gold  and  crimson's  richest  dye, 
I've  thought  the  gentle  gales  thy  breath, 

The  murmuring  of  the  grove  thy  voice — 
And  heaven  above,  and  earth  beneath, 

In  thee  seemed  to  rejoice. 

Sweet  visions  then,  that  sleep  by  day, 

Thy  magic  wand  hath  made  mine  own, 
As  brilliant  as  the  clouds  that  play 

Around  the  sun's  descending  throne  ; 
And  I  have  striven  in  many  a  song 

To  pay  my  homage  at  thy  shrine  : — 
A  worthless  offering,  for  a  throng 

Of  joys,  by  thee  made  mine. 

What  though  the  idle  wreath  would  fade 

By  weak,  though  willing  fingers  twined, 
Soon  gathered  to  oblivion's  shade  ; 

Not  less  the  task  would  soothe  my  mind. 
Inspired  by  thee,  I  cease  to  pine, 

Nor  thought  on  aught  that  crossed  my  bliss, 
And  borne  to  other  worlds  of  thine, 

Forgot  the  pangs  of  this. 

But  this  was  all  in  earlier  days, 

When  boyhood's  hopes  were  wild  and  high, 
And  eaglet-like,  I  fixed  rny  gaze 

Where  glory's  sun  blazed  through  the  sky  ; 
Put  fate  and  circumstance  forbade 

The  noble,  though  presumptuous  flight ; 
Those  hopes  are  blasted  and  decayed 

JJy  disappointment's  blight, 


64  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM. 

My  soul  is  daring  now,  as  then, 

Though  fate  denies  its  strong  desire — 
Still,  still,  I  hear  the  voice  within, 

The  stirring  voice  that  cries  '  aspire  !' 
It  haunts  me  like  the  sounds  that  ring 

In  dying  guilt's  distempered  ear, 
When  round  his  couch,  dim, — hovering, — 

His  crimes,  like  ghosts,  appear. 

And,  aye,  some  demon  in  my  sight 

Displays  what  wreaths  for  others  bloom, 
The  fame  that  gilds  their  life  with  light, 

The  halo  that  surrounds  their  tomb; 
'And  gaze,  presumptuous  fool!'  he  cries, 

'Unhonoured — blest  thou  ne'er  shall  be — 
'But  pine  for  ever,  there  to  rise 

'  Where  springs  no  flower  for  thee.' 

Oh,  Poesy!  thou  too  hast  now 

Withdrawn  thy  wonted  influence, 
When  most  I  need  thy  tender  glow 

To  renovate  my  aching  sense. 
No  more  thy  dreams  before  me  pass 

In  swift  succession,  bright  and  fair  ; 
And  when  I  would  unveil  thy  glass, 

Thou  show'st  me  but  Despair. 

Whenever,  now,  I  seek  the  bowers, 

Where  fancy  led  my  steps  to  thee, 
Before  my  eyes  a  desert  lours, — 

The  cold  reality  I  see. 
My  gloomy  bosom's  joyless  cell, 

No  ray  of  thine  illumines  more, 
Which  once  could  guide  my  spirit  well 

O'er  every  ill  to  soar. 

By  all  the  intense  love  of  thee 

Which  fires  my  soul,  and  thrills  my  frame  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  65 

By  tears  thou  giv'st  thy  words  to  be, 

When  struggling  feelings  have  no  name  ! — 

Return,  return  !     By  thee  upborne, 
And  by  a  yet  un vanquished  will, 

The  malice  of  my  fate  I'll  scorn, — 

In  woe  triumphant  still. 
Literary  Gazette.  ZARACII. 


EVENING. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

WHEN  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave, 

Thoughts  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye  flow  ! 

Not  softer  on  the  western  wave 
The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 

Then  all,  by  chance  or  fate  removed, 
Like  spirits  crowd  upon  the  eye  ; 

The  few  we  liked — the  one  we  loved ! 
And  the  whole  heart  is  memory. 

And  life  is  like  a  fading  flower. 

Its  beauty  dying  as  we  gaze  ; 
Yet  as  the  shadows  round  us  lour, 

Heaven  pours  above  a  brighter  blaze. 

When  morning  sheds  its  gorgeous  dye, 

Our  hope,  our  heart,  to  earth  is  given  ; 
But  dark  and  lonely  is  the  eye 

That  turns  not,  at  its  eve,  to  heaven. 
./Yen?  Times. 


6* 


C6  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  KITTEN. 

BY    JOANNA    BAILLIF. 

WANTON  drole,  whoso  harmless  play 

Beguiles  the  rustic's  closing  day, 

When  drawn  the  evening  lire  about, 

Sit  aged  Crone  and  thoughtless  Lout, 

And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool, 

Waiting  till  his  supper  cool  ; 

And  maid,  whose  cheek  outhlooms  the  rose, 

As  bright  the  blazing  faggot  glows, 

Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light, 

Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight ; 

Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces 

Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coiled,  and  crouching  low, 
With  glaring  eye-balls  watch  thy  foe, 
The  housewife's  spindle  whirling  round, 
Or  thread,  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye  ; 
Then,  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 
Now,  wheeling  round,  with  bootless  skill, 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 
As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide  ; 
Till,  from  thy  centre  starting  far, 
Thou  sidelong  rear'st,  with  tail  in  air, 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry, 
Like  Madam  in  her  tantrums  high  ; 
Though  ne'er  a  Madam  of  them  all 
Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall, 
More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays, 
To  catch  the  admiring  stranger's  gaze. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  67 

Doth  power  in  measured  verses  dwell, 

All  tliy  vagaries  wild  to  tell  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  start,  the  jet,  the  bound, 

The  giddy  scamper  round  and  round, 

With  leap,  and  jerk,  and  high  curvet, 

And  many  a  whirling  somerset, 

(Permitted  be  the  modern  Muse 

Expression  technical  to  use) 

These  mock  the  deftliest  rhymester's  skill, 

But  poor  in  art,  though  rich  in  will. 

The  nimblest  tumbler,  stage-bedight, 
To  thee  is  but  a  clumsy  wight, 
Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thec  little  pains, 
For  which,  I  trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requites  him  oft  with  plaudits  loud. 
But,  stopped  the  while  thy  wanton  play, 
Applauses  too,  thy  feats  repay  : 
For  then,  beneath  some  urchin's  hand, 
With  modest  pride  thou  takest  thy  stand, 
While  many  a  stroke  of  fondness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides  ; 
Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur, 
And  loudly  sings  thy  busy  pur ; 
As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound, 
Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground, 
And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 
Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose  ; 
While  softly  from  thy  whiskered  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone,  by  cottage  fire, 

Do  rustics  rude,  thy  tricks  admire  ; — 

The  learned  sage,  whose  thoughts  explore 

The  widest  range  of  human  lore, 

Or,  with  unfettered  fancy,  fly 

Through  airy  heights  of  poesy, 


68 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Pausing,  smiles,  with  altered  air, 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow  chair, 
Or,  struggling  oj)  the  mat  below, 
Hold  warfare  with  his  slippered  toe. 
The  widowed  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 
Who  in  the  still,  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial,  spends  her 


, 

Arid  rarely  turns  a  lettered  page; 
Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper  ball, 
Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 
The  ends  of  ravelled  skein  to  catch, 
But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will, 
Perplexing  oft  her  sober  skill. 
Even  he,  whose  mind  of  gloomy  bent, 
In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent, 
Reviews  the  wit  of  former  days, 
And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways  ; 
What  time  the  lamp's  unsteady  gleam 
Doth  rouse  him  from  his  moody  dream, 
Feels,  asthou  gamboPst  round  his  seat, 
His  heart  with  pride  less  fiercely  beat, 
And  smiles,  a  link  in  thee  to  find 
That  joins  him  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou  then,  thou  witless  puss, 

The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus  ? 

Is  it,  that  in  thy  glaring  eye, 

And  rapid  movements,  we  descry, 

While  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 

The  chimney  corner  snugly  fill, 

A  lion,  darting  on  the  prey  ? 

A  tiger,  at  his  ruthless  play  ? 

Or,  is  it,  that  in  thee  we  trace, 

With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace, 

An  emblem,  viewed  with  kindred  eye, 

Of  tricksy,  restless  infancy? 

Ah  !  many  a  lightly-sport'ive  child, 

Who  hath,  like  thee,  our  wits  beguiled, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  69 

To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown, 
With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 
Even  so,  poor  Kit !  must  thou  endure, 
When  thou  becomest  a  cat  demure, 
Full  many  a  cuff  and  angry  word, 
Chid  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
And  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I  ween, 
So  oft  our  favoured  playmate  been, 
Soft  be  the  change,  which  thou  shalt  prove, 
When  time  hath  spoiled  thee  of  our  love  ; 
Still  be  thou  deemed,  by  housewife  fat, 
A  comely,  careful,  mousing  cat, 
Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 
Replenished  oft  with  savoury  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  be  past, 
Be  thou  to  pond  or  dunghill  cast ; 
But  gently  borne  on  good  man's  spade, 
Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid, 
And  children  show,  with  glistening  eyes, 
The  place  where  poor  old  Pussy  lies. 
Edinburgh  Annual  Register. 


SONG. 

BY    WILLIAM    SMYTH,    ESQ. 

The  Hero  may  perish,  his  country  to  save, 
And  he  lives  in  the  records  of  fame  ; 

The  Sage  may  the  dungeons  of  tyranny  brave — 
Ever  honoured  and  blessed  be  his  name  ! 

But  virtue  that  silently  toils  or  expires, 
No  wreath  for  the  brow  to  entwine  ; 

That  asks  but  a  smile — but  a  fond  sigh  requires- 
O  Woman  !  that  virtue  is  thine. 


70  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM, 

TO  THE  RAINBOW. 

BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL,    ESQ. 

TRIUMPHAL  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art. 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamt  of  gems  and  gold 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws, 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws. 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 
But  words  of  the  Most  High 

Have  told,  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Wa,s  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 
TO  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 
O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child. 
To  bless  the  bow  of  God, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  71 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 

The  first-made  anthem  rang, 
On  earth  delivered  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 

Unraptured  greet  thy  beam  : 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  poet's  theme. 

The  earth  to  thec  its  incense  yields, 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 
When  glittering'  in  the  freshened  fields 

The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town  ! 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 

As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 

First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 

Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 
Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 

That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 
JVeM>  Monthly  Magazine. 


COMPARISON. 

As  the  rose  of  the  valley,  when  dripping  with  dew, 
Is  the  sweetest  in  odour  and  brightest  in  hue  ; 
So  the  glance  of  dear  woman  most  lovely  appears, 
When  it  beams  from  her  eloquent  eye  through  her  tears 


72  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM, 


SAPPHO. 

She  was  one 

Whose  Lyre  the  spirit  of  sweet  song  had  hung 
"With  myrtle  and  with  laurel;  on  whose  head 
Genius  had  shed  his  starry  glories, — transcripts 
Of  woman's  loving  heart  and  woman's  disappointment. 

SHE  leant  upon  her  harp,  and  thousands  looked 

On  her  in  love  and  wonder; — thousands  knelt 

And  worshipped  in  her  presence  ; — burning  tears, 

And  words  that  died  in  utterance,  and  a  pause 

Of  breathless  agitated  eagerness, 

First  gave  the  full  heart's  homage ;  then  came  forth 

A  shout  that  rose  to  heaven,  and  the  hills, 

The  distant  valleys,  all  rang  with  the  name 

Of  the  ^Eolian  Sappho! — Every  heart 

Found  in  itself  some  echo  to  her  song. 

Low  notes  of  love,  hopes  beautiful  and  fresh, — 

And  some  gone  by  for  ever — glorious  dreams, 

High  aspirations,  those  thrice  gentle  thoughts 

That  dwell  upon  the  absent  and  the  dead, 

Were  breathing  in  her  music — and  these  are 

Chords  every  bosom  vibrates  to.     But  she 

Upon  whose  brow  the  laurel  crown  is  placed, 

Her  colour's  varying  with  deep  emotion — 

There  is  a  softer  blush  than  conscious  pride 

Upon  her  cheek,  and  in  that  tremulous  smile 

Is  all  a  woman's  timid  tenderness. 

Her  eye  is  on  a  Youth,  and  other  days 

And  feelings  warm  have  rushed  on  her  soul 

With  all  their  former  influence  ; — thoughts  that  slept 

Cold,  calm  as  death,  have  wakened  to  new  life  ; — 

Whole  years'  existence  have  passed  in  that  glance. — 

She  had  once  loved  in  very  early  days ; 

That  was  a  thing  gone  by.     One  had  called  forth 

The  music  of  her  soul. — He  loved  her  too, 

But  not  as  she  did  : — she  was  unto  him 

As  a  young  bird,  whose  early  flight  he  trained, 

Whose  first  wild  songs  were  sweet,  for  he  had  taught 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


73 


Those  songs ; — but  she  looked  up  to  him  with  all 

Youth's  deep  and  passionate  idolatry  ; — 

Love  was  her  heart's  sole  universe — he  was 

To  her,  Hope,  Genius,  Energy,— the  God 

Her  inmost  spirit  worshipped, — in  whose  smile 

Was  all  e'en  minstrel  pride  held  precious;  praise 

Was  prized  but  as  the  echo  of  his  own. 

But  other  times  and  other  feelings  came: — 

Hope  is  love's  element,  and  love  with  her 

Sickened  of  its  own  vanity. — She  lived 
Mid  bright  realities  and  brighter  dreams, 
Those  strange  but  exquisite  imaginings 

That  tinge  with  such  sweet  colours  minstrel  thoughts  ; 
And  Fame,  like  sunlight,  was  upon  her  path; 
And  strangers  heard  her  name,  and  eyes  that  never 
Had  looked  on  Sappho,  yet  had  wept  with  her. 
Her  first  love  never  wholly  lost  its  power, 
But,  like  rich  incense  shed,  although  no  trace 
Was  of  its  visible  presence,  yet  its  sweetness 
Mingled  with  every  feeling,  and  it  gave 
That  soft  and  melancholy  tenderness, 
Which  was  the  magic  of  her  song. — That  Youth 
Who  knelt  before  her  was  so  like  the  shape 
That  haunted  her  spring  dreams — the  same  dark  eyes, 
Whose  light  had  once  been  as  the  light  of  heaven! — 
Others  breathed  winning  flatteries, — she  turned 
A  careless  hearing  ; — but  when  Phaon  spoke, 
Her  heart  beat  quicker,  and  the  crimson  light 
Upon  her  cheek  gave  a  most  tender  answer. — 
She  loved  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  heart 
Which  lives  but  in  itself;  her  life  had  passed 
Arnid  the  grand  creations  of  the  thought. 
Love  was  to  her  a  vision  ; — it  was  now 
Heightened  into  devotion. — But  a  soul 
So  gifted  and  so  passionate  as  her's 
Will  seek  companionship  in  vain,  and  find 
Its  feelings  solitary. — Phaon  soon 
Forgot  the  fondness  of  his  Lesbian  maid  ; 
7 


71  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  Sappho  knew  that  talents,  riches,  fame, 
May  not  soothe  slighted  love. 

There  is  a  dark  rock  looks  on  the  blue  sea; 

'Twas  there  love's  last  song  echoed: — there  She  sleeps, 

Whose  lyre  was  crowned  with  laurel,  and  whose  name 

Will  be  remembered  long  as  Love  or  Song 

Are  sacred — the  devoted  Sappho  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


SAPPHO'S  SONG. 

FAREWELL,  my  Lute! — and  would  that  I 
Had  never  waked  thy  burning  chords! 

Poison  has  been  upon  thy  sigh, 

And  fever  has  breathed  in  thy  words. 

Yet  wherefore,  wherefore  should  I  blame 
Thy  power,  thy  spell,  my  gentle  lute  ? 

I  should  have  been  the  wretch  I  am, 
Had  every  chord  of  thine  been  mute. 

It  was  my  evil  star  above, 

Not  my  sweet  lute,  that  wrought  me  wrong; 
It  was  not  song  that  taught  me  love, 

But  it  was  love  that  taught  me  song. 

If  song  be  past,  and  hope  undone, 

And  pulse,  and  head,  and  heart,  are  flame ; 

It  is  thy  work,  thou  faithless  one  ! 
But,  no  !  I  will  not  name  thy  name  ! 

Sun-god,  lute,  wreath,  are  vowed  to  thee ! 

Long  be  their  light  upon  my  grave — 
My  glorious  grave  ! — Yon  deep  blue  sea  ! 

1  shall  sleep  calm  beneath  its  wave ! 

L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  75 

THE  EGYPTIAN  TOMB. 

if 

BY     THE     REV.     W.     L.     BOWLES. 

POMP  of  Egypt's  elder  day, 
Shade  of  the  mighty  passed  away, 
(Whose  giant  works  still  frown  sublime 
Mid  the  twilight  shades  of  Time,) 
Fanes,  of  sculpture  vast  and  rude, 
That  strew  the  sandy  solitude, 
Lo!  before  our  startled  eyes, 
As  at  a  wizard's  wand,  ye  rise, 
Glimmering  larger  through  the  gloom  ! 
While  on  the  secrets  of  the  tomb, 
Rapt  in  other  times,  we  gaze, 
The  Mother-Queen  of  ancient  days, 
Her  mystic  symbol  in  her  hand, 
Great  Iris,  seems  herself  to  stand. 

From  mazy  vaults,  high-arched  and  dim, 
Hark  !  heard  ye  not  Osiris'  hymn  ? 
And  saw  ye  not  in  order  dread 
The  long  procession  of  the  dead? 
Forms  that  the  night  of  years  concealed, 
As  by  a  flash,  are  here  revealed  ; 
Chiefs  who  sang  the  victor  song, — 
Sceptred  Kings, — a  shadowy  throng, — 
From  slumber  of  three  thousand  years 
Each,  as  in  light  and  life,  appears, 
Stern  as  of  yore  !     Yes,  vision  vast, 
Three  thousand  years  have  silent  passed, 
Suns  of  Empire  risen  and  set 
(Whose  story  Time  can  ne'er  forget,) 
Time,  in  the  morning  of  her  pride, 
Immense,  along  the  Nile's  green  side, 
The  City*  of  the  Sun  appeared, 
And  her  gigantic  image  reared. 

*  Thebes. 


76  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 

As  Memnon,  like  a  trembling  string 

When  the  Sun,  with  rising  ray 

Streaked  the  lonely  desert  gray, 

Sent  forth  its  magic  murmuring, 

That  just  was  heard, — then  died  away; 

So  passed,  oh  !  Thebes!  thy  morning  pride  ! 

Thy  glory  was  the  sound  that  died  ! 

Dark  city  of  the  desolate, 

Once  thou  wcrt  rich,  and  proud,  and  great! 

This  busy-peopled  isle  was  then 

A  waste,  or  roamed  by  savage  men 

Whose  gay  descendants  now  appear 

To  mark  thy  wreck  of  glory  here. 

Phantom  of  that  city  old, 
Whose  mystic  spoils  I  now  behold, 
A  kingdom's  sepulchre, — oh  say, 
Shall  Albion's  own  illustrious  day, 
Thus  darkly  close  ?     Her  power,  her  fame 
Thus  pass  away,  a  shade,  a  name  ? — 
The  Mausoleum  murmured  as  I  spoke  ; 
A  spectre  seemed  to  rise,  like  towering  smoke  ; 
It  answered  not,  but  pointed  as  it  fled 
To  the  black  carcass  of  the  sightless  dead. 
Once  more  I  heard  the  sounds  of  earthly  strife, 
And  the  streets  ringing  to  the  stir  of  life. 
Literary  Gazette. 


STANZAS. 

I  saw  a  falling  leaf  soon  strew 

The  soil  to  which  it  owed  its  birth  : 
I  saw  a  bright  star  falling  too 

But  never  reach  the  quiet  earth. 
Such  is  the  lowly  portion  blest, 

Such  is  ambition's  foiled  endeavour; 
The  falling  leaf  is  soon  at  rest, 

While  stars  that  fall,  fall  on  for  ever ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  77 

I1ELVELLYN. 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

HELVELLTN!  blue  Helvellyn  •  Hill  of  hills! 
Giant  amongst  the  giants  !  Lift  thy  head 
Broad  in  the  sun-light!  no  loose  vapour  dims 
Thy  barren  grandeur;  but,  with  front  severe, 
Calm,  proud,  and  unabashed,  thou  look'st  upon 
The  heights  around — the  lake  and  meadows  green, 
Whereon  the  herded  cattle,  tiny  things, 
Like  flowers  upon  the  sunny  landscape  lie  ; 
Behind  thee  cometh  quick  the  evening  pale, 
Whilst  in  the  west  an  amphitheatre 
Of  crags  (such  as  the  Deluge  might  have  washed 
In  vain,)  against  the  golden  face  of  heaven 
Turns  its  dark  shoulder,  and  insults  the  day. 

With  no  imposing  air,  no  needless  state, 
Thou  risest,  blue  Helvellyn  ; — no  strange  point 
Lends  thee  distinction,  no  fantastic  shape 
Marks  thee  a  thing  whereon  the  mind  must  rest ; 
But  in  thine  own  broad  height,  peerless  and  vast, 
Leviathan  of  mountains!  thou  art  seen 
Fairly  ascending,  amidst  crags  and  hills 
The  mightiest  one, — associate  of  the  sky! 

I  see  thee  again,  from  these  bleak  sullen  moor?, 
Boundless  and  bare, — long,  dreary,  wintry  wastes, 
Where  the  red  waters  lie  stagnant,  amidst 
Black  rocks,  and  treacherous  moss,  and  rushes  white 
With  age,  or  withered  by  the  bitter  blast  ; — 
Thou  lookest  out  on  thy  huge  limbs  that  lie 
Sleeping  far,  far  beneath  ;  and  on  the  plains 
Below,  and  heaven,  which  scarcely  o'er  thy  head 
Lifts  its  blue  arch  ;  and  on  the  driven  clouds 
That  loiter  round  thee,  or  impetuous  burst 
About  thy  summit  with  their  stormy  showers. 
1* 


10  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

There,  in  thy  lonely  state,  thou  livest  on 

Through  days,  and  years,  and  ages, — still  the  same 

Unshaken,  undecaying  : — not  alone 

A  thing  material  haply,  for  within 

Thy  heart  a  secret  spirit  may  now  abide  ; 

The  same  that  fills  thy  veins  in  spring  with  green, 

And  hangs  around  thoe  long  the  summer  thyme  ; 

And  when  the  winds  of  Autumn  moan  away 

Solemn  and  sad,  from  thy  supremest  brow 

Poureth  the  white  stream  bright  and  beautiful. 

The  winds! — are  they  thy  music  ?  (who  shall  say 
Thou  nearest  not !) — Thy  echoes,  which  restore 
The  rolling  thunder  fainting  fast  away, 
From  death  to  a  second  life  seem  now,  methinks, 
Not  mere  percussions  of  the  common  air, 
But  imitations  high  of  mightier  sense — 
Of  some  communicable  soul  that  speaks 
From  the  most  inward  earth,  abroad  to  men 
And  mountains,  bird  and  beast,  and  air  and  Heaven. 
London  Magazine. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR    A    VILLAGE    SPRING. 

CALM  is  the  tenor  of  my  way, 

Not  hurried/)n  with  furious  haste, 

Nor  raised  aloft  in  proud  display  : 

Pure  too  the  tribute  of  my  urn, 

With  constant  flow,  not  idle  waste, 

Offering  to  him  who  sends  the  rain, 

By  serving  man,  the  best  return. 

A  course  like  mine  thy  trials  o'er 

Those  living  waters  will  attain, 

Which  he  who  drinks  shall  thirst  no  more. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  79 


MY  BROTHER'S   GRAVE. 

BENEATH  the  chancel's  hallowed  stone, 

Exposed  to  every  rustic  tread, 
To  few,  save  rustic  mourners,  known, 

My  brother,  is  thy  lowly  bed. 
Few  words,  upon  thy  rough  stone  graven, 

Thy  name — thy  birth — thy  youth  declare — 
Thy  innocence — thy  hopes  of  heaven, 

In  simplest  phrase  recorded  there. 
No  'scutcheons  shine,  no  banners  wave, 
In  mockery  o'er  my  brother's  grave  ! 

The  place  is  silent. — Rarely  sound 
Is  heard  those  ancient  walls  around, 
Nor  mirthful  voice  of  friends  that  meet 
Discoursing  in  the  public  street ; 
Nor  hum  of  business  dull  and  loud, 
Nor  murmur  of  the  passing  crowd, 
Nor  soldier's  drum,  nor  trumpet's  swell, 
From  neighbouring  fort  or  citadel  ; 
No  sound  of  human  toil  or  strife 
In  death's  lone  dwelling  speaks  of  life, 
Or  breaks  the  silence  still  and  deep 

Where  thou,  beneath  thy  burial  stone, 
Art  laid  in  that  unstartled  sleep 

The  living  eye  hath  never  known. 
The  lonely  sexton's  footstep  falls 
In  dismal  echoes  on  the  walls, 
As,  slowly  pacing  through  the  aisle, 

He  sweeps  the  unholy  dust  away, 
And  cobwebs,  which  must  not  defile 

Those  windows  on  the  sabbath-day  ; 
And,  passing  through  the  central  nave, 
Treads  lightly  on  my  brother's  grave. 

But  when  the  sweet-toned  sabbath-chime, 

Pouring  its  music  on  the  breeze, 
Proclaims  the  well  known  holy  time 
Of  prayer,  and  thanks,  and  bended  knees  ; 


80  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

When  rustic  crouds  devoutly  meet, 

And  lips  and  hearts  to  God  are  given, 
And  souls  enjoy  oblivion  sweet 

Of  earthly  ills  in  thoughts  of  heaven  ; 
What  voice  of  calm  and  solemn  tone 
Is  heard  above  thy  burial  stone  ? 
What  form  in  priestly  meek  array 
Beside  the  altar  kneels  to  pray  ? 
Wiiat  holy  hands  are  lifted  up 
To  bless  the  sacramental  cup  ? 
Full  well  I  know  that  reverend  form, 

And  if  a  voice  could  reach  the  dead, 
Those  tones  would  reach  thee,  though  the  worm, 

My  brother,  makes  thy  heart  his  bed. 
That  sire,  who  thy  existence  gave, 
Now  stands  beside  thy  lowly  grave. 
It  is  not  long  since  thou  wert  wont 

Within  these  sacred  walls  to  kneel ; 
This  altar,  that  baptismal  font, 

These  stones,  which  now  thy  dust  conceal, 
The  sweet  tones  of  the  sabbath  bell, 

Were  holiest  objects  to  thy  soul  ; 
On  these  thy  spirit  loved  to  dwell, 

Untainted  by  the  world's  control. 
My  brother,  those  were  happy  days, 

When  thou  and  I  were  children  yet! 
How  fondly  memory  still  surveys 

Those  scenes,  the  heart  can  ne'er  forget ! 
My  soul  was  then,  as  thine  is  now, 

Unstained  by  sin,  un.stung  by  pain  ; 
Peace  smiled  on  each  unclouded  brow — 

Mine  ne'er  will  be  so  cairn  again. 
How  blithely  then  we  hailed  the  ray, 
Which  ushered  in  the  sabbath  day  ! 
How  lightly  then  our  footsteps  trod 
Yon  pathway  to  the  house  of  God  ! 
For  souls,  in  which  no  dark  offence 
Hath  sullied  childhood's  innocence, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  81 

Best  meet  the  pure  and  hallowed  shrine, 
Which  guiltier  bosoms  own  divine. 

I  feel  not  now,  as  then  I  felt; — 

The  sunshine  of  my  heart  is  o'er ; 
The  spirit  now  is  changed,  which  dwelt 

Within  me,  in  the  days  of  yore. 
But  thou  wert  snatched,  my  brother,  hence 
In  all  thy  guileless  innocence  ; 
One  sabbath  saw  thee  bend  the  knee, 
In  reverential  piety, — 
(For  childish  faults  forgiveness  crave) — 
The  next  beamed  brightly  on  thy  grave. 
The  crowd,  of  which  thou  late  wert  one, 
Now  throng  across  thy  burial  stone  ; 
Rude  footsteps  trample  on  the  spot, 
Where  thou  liest  mouldering- — not  forgot ; 
And  some  few  gentler  bosoms  weep, 
In  silence,  o'er  thy  last  long  sleep. 
I  stood  not  by  thy  feverish  bed, 

1  looked  not  on  thy  glazing  eye, 
Nor  gently  lulled  thy  aching  head, 

Nor  viewed  thy  dying  agony ; 
I  felt  not  what  my  parents  felt, — 

The  doubt — the  terror — the  distress  ; — 
Nor  vainly  for  my  brother  knelt ; — 

My  soul  was  spared  that  wretchedness : 
One  sentence  told  me,  in  a  breath, 
My  brother's  illness  and  his  death  ! 

And  days  of  mourning  glided  by, 
And  brought  me  back  my  gaiety  ; 
For  soon  in  childhood's  wayward  heart 
Doth  crushed  affection  cease  to  smart. 
Again  I  joined  the  sportive  crowd 
Of  boyish  playmates,  wild  and  loud  ; 
I  learnt  to  view  with  careless  eye 
My  sable  garb  of  misery  ; 


82  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

No  more  I  wept  my  brother's  lot, — 
His  image  was  almost  forgot  ; 
And  every  deeper  shade  of  pain 
Had  vanished  from  my  soul  again. 

The  well  known  morn,  I  used  to  greet 

With  boyhood's  joy,  at  length  was  beaming, 
And  thoughts  of  home  and  raptures  sweet 

In  every  eye  but  mine  were  gleaming  ; 
But  I,  amidst  that  youthful  band 

Of  bounding  hearts  and  beaming  eyes, 
Nor  smiled  nor  spoke  at  joy's  command, 

Nor  felt  those  wonted  ecstasies  ! 
I  loved  my  home,  but  trembled  now 
To  view  my  father's  altered  brow  ; 
J  feared  to  meet  my  mother's  eye, 
And  hear  her  voice  of  agony  ; 
I  feared  to  view  my  native  spot, 
Where  he  who  loved  it — now  was  not. 
The  pleasures  of  my  home  were  fled  ; — 
My  brother  slumbered  with  the  dead. 

I  drew  near  to  my  father's  gate  ; — 

No  smiling  faces  met  me  now. 
I  entered, — all  was  desolate. — 

Grief  sat  upon  my  mother's  brow; — 
I  heard  her,  as  she  kissed  me,  sigh  ; 
A  tear  stood  in  my  lather's  eye  ; 
My  little  brothers  round  me  pressed, 
In  gay  unthinking  childhood  blest. 
Long,  long,  that  hour  has  passed,  but  when, 
Shall  I  forget  its  gloomy  scene  ! 

The  sabbath  came — With  mournful  pace 

I  sought  my  brother's  burial  place — 

That  shrine,  which  when  1  last  had  viewed — 

In  vigour  by  my  side  he  stood. 

J  gazed  around  with  fearful  eye  : — 

All  things  reposed  in  sanctity. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  83 

I  reached  the  chancel, — nought  was  changed  : — 

The  altar  decently  arranged, — 

The  pure  white  cloth  above  the  shrine, — 

The  consecrated  bread  and  wine, — 

All  was  the  same — I  found  no  trace 

Of  sorrow  in  that  holy  place. 

One  hurried  glance  I  downward  gave, — 

My  foot  was  on  my  brother's  grave  ! 

And  years  have  passed — and  thou  art  now 

Forgotten  in  thy  silent  tomb  ; — 
And  cheerful  is  my  mother's  brow, — 

My  father's  eye  has  lost  its  gloom, — 
And  years  have  passed — and  death  has  laid 

Another  victim  by  thy  side  ; 
With  thee  he  roams,  an  infant  shade, 

But  not  more  pure  than  thee  lie  died. 
Blest  are  ye  both  !     Your  ashes  rest 
Beside  the  spot  ye  loved  the  best  ; 
And  that  dear  home,  which  saw  your  birth, 
O'erlooks  you  in  your  bed  of  earth. 
But  who  can  tell  what  blissful  shore 
Your  angel-spirits  wander  o'er  ! 
And  who  can  tell  what  raptures  high 
Now  bless  your  immortality  ! 

My  boyish  days  are  nearly  gone, — 

My  breast  is  not  unsullied  now  ; 
And  worldly  cares  and  woes  will  soon 

Cut  their  deep  furrows  on  my  brow, — 
And  life  will  take  a  darker  hue* 
From  ills  my  brother  never  knew  ; 
And  I  have  made  me  bosom  friends, 

And  loved  and  linked  my  heart  with  others  ; 
But  who  with  mine  his  spirit  blends, 

As  mine  was  blended  with  my  brother's  ! 
When  years  of  rapture  glided  by 

The  spriug  of  life's  unclouded  weather, 


84  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Our  souls  were  knit,  and  thou  and  I, 
My  brother,  grew  in  love  together. 
The  chain  is  broke  that  hound  us  then  ;- 
When  shall  I  find  its  like  again ! 
The  Etonian. 


ON  THE   RECEIPT   OF   A   LETTER. 


BT    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CRABBE. 

THROUGH  many  a  year  the  Merchant  views, 

With  steady  eye,  his  distant  gains; 
Right  on,  his  object  he  pursues, 

And  what  he  seeks,  in  time,  obtains  : 
So  he  some  distant  prospect  sees, 

Who  gazes  on  a  Patron's  smiles, 
And  if  he  finds  it  hard  to  please, 

That  pleasant  view  his  cares  beguiles. 

Not  such  my  fate — what  years  disclose, 

And  piece-meal  oh  such  minds  bestow, 
The  lively  joys,  the  grievous  woes  ! 

Shall  this  tremendous  instant  show  : — 
Concentred  hopes  and  fears  I  feel, 

As  on  the  verge  of  fate  I  stand, 
In  sight  of  Fortune's  rapid  wheel, 

And  with  the  ticket  in  myjiand. 

No  intermediate  good  can  rise, 

And  feeble  compensation  make  ; 
'Tis  one  dread  blank,  or  one  rich  prize  ; 

And  life's  grand  hope  is  now  at  stake! 
Where  all  is  lost,  or  all  is  won, 

That  can  distress,  that  can  delight ; 
Oh  !  how  will  rise  To-morrow's  Sun 

On  him  who  draws  his  fate  To-night! 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  85 


ON  A  CHILD  PLAYING. 

SWEET  burl,  tliat  l>y  and  by  shall  be  a  flower  ; 

Young  star,  that  just  hath  broken  on  our  eye  : 
Pure  spring,  ero  long1  to  grow  a  stream  of  power; 

First  dawn  of  Hope,  that  soon  shall  flame  out  high 

Into  the  mid  arch  of  the  golden  sky  ; 
I  love,  young  fawn,  to  see  thee  sport ;  and  yet 
Such  contemplation  breeds  but  vain  regret. 

Let  the  proud  mother  smile  to  see  thy  ways, 
And  once  again  forget  herself  in  thee  ; — 

Let  the  proud  father  eke  the  mother's  praise, 
But,  graver,  place  thee  fondly  on  his  knee, 
And  vainly  prophecy  what  thou  shall  be — 

Pleased  with  the  tongueless  eloquence,  that  lies 

Still  silent,  in  thy  clear  blue  laughing  eyes. 

Let  them  enjoy — whilst  yet  they  can  enjoy; 
And,  infant  son  of  Time,  do  thou  smile  on, 

Deem  not  for  aye  to  be  the  favourite  boy  ; 

Take  what  thou  can'st,  or  ere  thy  time  is  gone, 
For  still  the  darling  is  the  youngest  son  ; 

And  thou  shalt  quickly  sorrow  sore  to  see 

Another,  younger  still,  supplanting  thee. 

Though  many  a  high  presage  be  cast  upon  thee, — 
Though  many  a  mouth  be  diligent  to  praise  thee, — 

Though  Beauty  pine  until  that  she  hath  won  thee, — 
Though  worship,  wheresoe'er  thou  goest,  delays  thee, - 
Though  Fate  and  Fortune  emulate  to  raise  thee, — 

Yet  all  the  thronging  honours  that  surround  thee 

Shall  not  avail  thee,  since  that  Care  hath  found  thee. 

Time's  train  is  lacqueyed  still  by  weariness; 

What  boots  the  crownlet  of  o'er-flattered  gold, 
Or  gemmed  Tiara,  if  they  cannot  bless 

Or  soothe  the  aching  brows  that  they  enfold  ? 

What  boots  it  to  wax  honourably  old, 
8 


86  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

If  'tis  the  end  of  every  hope  and  vow, 
To  yearn  to  be  again  as  thou  art  now  ! 

Oh  !  'tis  a  thriftless  bargain  of  a  life, 

To  live  to  know  that  bliss  is  hut  pretence — 

That  gaining  nothing  in  this  earthly  strife, 
We  only  toil  to  forfeit  innocence  ! — 
The  profit  nothing,  but  remorse  the  expense  ! 

Or  that  fond  grief,  that  wearies  of  its  state, 

And  pines  for  toys  and  gauds  worn  out  of  date. 

Thou  art  an  old  pretender,  gray-beard  Age  ; 

Thou  boasted  much,  and  yet  art  hut  a  cheat ; 
And  those  who  toil  upon  thy  pilgrimage, 

Would  turn  again  with  no  unwilling  feet : — 

Yea,  dewy  clouds  to  evening  are  most  meet. 
If  smiles  be  Youth's,  sure  tears  are  Age's  sign, 
As  suns  that  rise  in  smiles,  in  tears  decline. 

Blackwood's  Magazine.  T.  D. 


ON  AN   OLD    ENGRAVING   OF  A   NUN. 

'Tis  a  most  wondrous  mockery  of  life  ! 

A  dirty  scroll,  and  lined  with  dirtier  ink, 

Is  all  I  gaze  upon  ;  and  yet  how  rife 

With  beauty  and  devotion  !     One  might  drink 

From  those  meek,  pensive  lips,  and  drooping  eyes 

Love  that  would  lift  a  demon  to  the  skies, 

Or  plant  an  Eden  on  Destruction's  brink  ! 

Sure,  on  her  saintly  smile  we  need  but  look 

To  read  the  entrancing  promise  of  that  Book, 

Which  in  one  hand  she  clasps  ;  and  dare  we  think 

Of  virgin  youth  and  loveliness,  and  bliss 

Too  heavenly  for  a  world  so  fallen  as  this, — 

But  no — still,  still  be  the  fair  fingers  prest 

Upon  those  hallowed  folds  that  curtain  her  pure  breast. 


THE  POETICAL  ALBUM.  87 

LORD  BYRON'S  LATEST  VERSES. 

Missolonghi,  January  22,  1824. 

"  On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year." 

*Tia  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move  ; 
Yet  though  I  cannot  he  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf, 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of- love  are  gone, 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone. 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  like  to  some  volcanic  isle, 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze : — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

Th'  exalted  portion  of  the  pain, 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share  ; 

But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus — it  is  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul  ;  nor  now, 
Where  glory  seals  the  hero's  bier, 

Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  us  see  ; 
The  Spartan  borne  upon  his  shield 
Was  not  more  free. 


88  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Awake  !  not  Greece — she  is  awake  ! 

Awake,  my  spirit,— think  through  whom 
My  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake — 

And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  all  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood — unto  thee, 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be! 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth — why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here — up  to  the  field,  and  give 

Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best, 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


SAPPHO. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLT. 

LOOK  on  this  brow  ! — the  laurel  wreath 
Beamed  on  it,  like  a  wreath  of  fire  ; 

For  passion  gave  the  living  breath, 

That  shook  the  chords  of  Sappho's  lyre  ! 

Look  on  this  brow  ! — the  lowest  slave, 
The  veriest  wretch  of  want  and  care, 

Blight  shudder  at  the  lot  that  gave 
Her  genius,  glory  and  despair. 

For,  from  these  lips  were  uttered  sighs, 

That,  more  than  fever,  scorched  the  frame ; 

And  tears  were  rained  from  these  bright  eyes, 
That  from  the  heart,  like  life-blood,  came,. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  89 

She  loved  !— she  felt  the  lightning-gleam, 
That  keenest  strikes  the  loftiest  mind  ; 

Life  quenched  in  one  ecstatic  dream, 
The  world  a  waste  before — behind. 

And  she  had  hope — the  treacherous  hope, 

The  last  deep  poison  of  the  bowl, 
That  makes  us  drain  it,  drop  by  drop, 

Nor  lose  one  misery  of  soul. 

Then  all  gave  way — mind,  passion,  pride  ! 

She  cast  one  weeping  glance  above, 
And  buried  in  her  bed,  the  tide, 

The  whole  concentred  strife  of  Love  ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    THE     FIRST    VIEW     OF     FONTHILL    ABBET. 
BY   THE  REV.    W.    L.    BOWLES. 

THE  mighty  master  waved  his  wand,  and  lo  ! 
On  the  astonished  eye  the  glorious  show 
Burst  like  a  vision  !     Spirit  of  the  place  ! 
Has  the  Arabian  wizard  with  his  mace 
Smitten  the  barren  downs,  far  onward  spread, 
And  bade  the  enchanted  palace  rise  instead  ? 
Bade  the  dark  woods  their  solemn  shades  extend, 
High  to  the  clouds  yon  spiry  tower  ascend  ? 
And  starting  from  th'  umbrageous  avenue 
Spread  the  rich  pile,  magnificent,  to  view  ? 
Enter ! — From  the  arched  portal  look  again 
Back,  on  the  lessening  woods  and  distant  plain ! 
Ascend  the  steps  ! — The  high  and  fretted  roof 
Is  woven  by  some  elfin-  hand  aloof; 
Whilst  from  the  painted  window's  long  array 
A  mellow  light  is  shed  as  not  of  day. 
How  gorgeous  all ! — O  never  may  the  spell 
Be  broken,  that  arrayed  those  radiant  forms  so  well ! 
8* 


90 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


A  SKETCH. 


Is  not  this  grove 

A  scene  of  pensive  loveliness  ? — The  gleam 
Of  Dian's  gentle  ray  falls  on  the  trees, 
And  piercing  through  the  gloom,  seems  like  the  smile 
That  Pity  gives  to  cheer  the  brow  of  Grief; 
The  turf  hath  caught  a  silvery  hue  of  light, 
Broken  by  shadows,  where  the  branching  oak 
Rears  its  dark  shade,  or  where  the  aspen  waves 
Its  trembling  leaves.     The  breeze  is  murmuring  by, 
Fraught  with  sweet  sighs  of  flowers  and  the  song 
Of  sorrow,  that  the  nightingale  pours  forth, 
Like  the  soft  dirge  of  love. 

There  is  oft  told 

A  melancholy  record  of  this  grove  : 
'Twas  once,  they  say,  the  haunt  of  young  Affection — 
And  now  seems  hallowed  by  the  tender  vows 
That  erst  were  breathed  here. 

Sad  is  the  tale 

That  tells  of  blighted  feelings,  hopes  destroyed  ; 
But  love  is  like  the  rose,  so  many  ills 
Assail  it  in  the  bud  ! — The  cankering  blast, 
The  frost  of  winter  and  the  summer  storm, 
All  bow  it  down ;  rarely  the  blossom  comes 
To  full  maturity  ;  but  there  is  nought 
Sinks  with  so  chill  a  breath  as  Faithlessness, — 
As  she  could  tell  whose  loveliness  lives  yet 
In  village  legends. — Often  at  this  hour 
Of  lonely  beauty,  would  she  list  the  tale 
Of  tenderness,  and  hearken  to  the  vows 
Of  one  more  dear  than  life  unto  her  soul  ; 
He  twined  him  round  the  heart,  which  beat  with  all 
The  deep  devotedness  of  early  love, — 
Then  left  her,  careless  of  the  passion,  which 
He  had  awakened  into  wretchedness. 
The  blight,  which  withered  all  the  blossoms  love 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  91 

Had  fondly  cherished,  withered  too  the  heart, 

Which  gave  them  birth.     Her  sorrow  had  no  voice, 

Save  in  her  faded  beauty  ;  for  she  looked 

A  melancholy,  broken-hearted  girl. 

She  was  so  changed,  the  soft  carnation  cloud 

Once  mantling  o'er  her  cheek  like  that,  which  eve 

Hangs  o'er  the  sky,  glowing  with  roseate  hue, 

Had  faded  into  paleness,  broken  by 

Bright  burning  blushes, — torches  of  the  tomb. 

There  was  such  sadness,  even  in  her  smiles, 

And  such  a  look  of  utter  hopelessness 

Dwelt  in  her  soft  blue  eye, — a  form  so  frail, 

So  delicate,  scarce  like  a  thing  of  earth, — 

'Twas  sad  to  gaze  upon  a  brow  so  fair, 

And  see  it  traced  with  such  a  tale  of  wo, — 

To  think  that  one  so  young  and  beautiful 

Was  wasting  to  the  grave. 

Within  yon  bower 

Of  honeysuckle  and  the  snowy  wealth, 
The  mountain-ash  puts  forth  to  welcome  spring, 
Her  form  was  found  reclined  upon  a  bank, 
Where  nature's  sweet  unnurtured  children  bloom. 
One  white  arm  lay  beneath  her  drooping  head, 
While  her  bright  tresses  twined  their  sunny  wreath 
Around  the  polished  ivory  ;  there  was  not 
A  tinge  of  colour  on  her  lovely  face  ; — 
'Twas  like  to  marble,  where  the  sculptor's  skill 
Had  traced  each  charm  of  beauty  but  the  blush. 
Serenity,  so  sweet,  sat  on  her  brow, — 
So  soft  a  smile  yet  hovered  o'er  her  lips, — 
At  first  they  thought  'twas  sleep, — and  sleep  it  was, — 
The  cold  long  rest  of  death. 

L.  E.  L. 
Literary  Gazette. 


92  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 


REPROACH  ME  NOT. 

OH  !  gentle  shade, — reproach  me  not, 

For  hours  of  mirth  too  late  gone  by  ! 
Thy  loveliness  is  ne'er  forgot 

However  wild  the  revelry. 
For  o'er  the  silent  goblet,  thou 

Art  still  remembered, — and  a  cloud, 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  and  o'er  my  brow  ; 

And  I  am  lone,  while  all  are  loud. 

Reproach  me  not, — Reproach  me  not 

For  mingling  in  the  noisy  scene  ! 
Mine  is  indeed  a  gloomy  lot, 

To  think  on  joys,  which  but  have  been ; 
To  meditate  on  woes,  which  yet 

Must  haunt  my  life,  and  speed  my  fall ! 
Some  minds  would  struggle  to  forget, 

But  mine  would  fain  remember  all. 

I  think  on  thee, — I  think  and  sigh, — 

Though  thoughts  are  sad.  and  sighs  are  vain! 
There's  something  in  thy  memory, 

That  gives  a  loveliness  to  pain  ; 
But  yet,  ah  !  gentle  saint,  forgive 

The  faults  this  wretched  breast  hath  known  ! 
Had  fate  allowed  thee  but  to  live, 

Those  shadowing  faults  had  ne'er  been  shown. 

Thy  friends  are  fading  from  my  sight, 

But  from  my  mind  they  ne'er  depart ; 
They  leave  behind  them  in  their  flight, 

Their  images  upon  my  heart ; — 
And  better  'twere  that  all  should  go 

From  this  dark  world, — since  thou  art  gone  ! 
I  need  no  friend  to  share  my  wo  ! — 

I  love  to  weep  apart, — alone. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thy  picture  !     It  is  life, — health, — love, — 

To  gaze  upon  that  eye, — that  cheek, — 
Tho^e  iips,  which  even  in  fancy  move, — 

Which  fancy  teaches  even  to  speak. 
Oh  !  I  have  hung  so  long  at  night, 

O'er  thy  still  semblance,  charmed  from  pain, 
Th:u  1  have  thought  the  living  light 

Came  beaming  from  those  eyes  again  ! 


93 


In  my  dark  heart  thy  image  glows, 

In  shape  and  light  divinely  fair  ; — 
Youth  sketched  the  form,  when  free  from  woes, 

And  faithful  memory  placed  it  there. 
In  revelry  'tis  still  with  me  ; — 

In  loneliness  'tis  ne'er  forgot, — 
My  heart  beats  still  the  same  to  thee : — 

Reproach  me  not ! — Reproach  me  not ! 
St.  James's  Chronicle. 


FROM  ANACREON. 

THE  girls  with  laughing  faces, 
Still  harp  on  age's  traces  ; 
And  still  they  cry,  grow  wiser, 
Your  glass  be  your  adviser. 
See  there — the  looks  we  cherished, 
On  that  dear  brow  are  perished. 
For  me,  nor  know,  nor  care  I, 
If  they  depart  or  tarry  ; 
But  this  I  know  much  better, 
It  suits  me  to  the  letter, 
To  prize  the  joys  remaining, 
Because  those  joys  are  waning. 


94  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE, 

WHO  FELL  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  CORUNNA, 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him, 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 
But  nothing  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard,  by  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  suddenly  firing. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  95 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame,  fresh  and  gory  : 

We  carved  not  a  line, — we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

Blackwood's  Magazine* 


VIRGIL'S   TOMB. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

BENEATH  the' shelter  of  a  mighty  hill, 

Whose  marble  peaks  were  garlanded  with  vine, 

And  musical  will)  many  a  sunny  rill, 

That  thro'  its  purple,  clustered  shades  did  twine, 

Bright  as  a  summer  serpent's  golden  spine, 

Leaned  a  low  temple,  in  the  sweet,  gray  gloom, 

Hoary  with  moss,  like  Age  in  calm  decline. 

With,  here  and  there,  a  rose's  lingering  bloom, 

Wreathed  loving  round  its  brow; — that  temple  is  a  tomb ! 

There  sleeps  the  Mantuan  !     There  the  subtlest  hand 

That  ever  wakened  Passion's  lyre,  is  laid. 
Oh  !  Master-genius  of  thy  glorious  Land  ! 

When — -when  shall  Italy  her  tresses  braid 
With  the  bright  flowers,  that  round  thy  forehead  played  ? 

When  flash  to  Heaven  the  ancient  sword  of  Rome  ? 
Come  from  thy  rest,  and  call  her  Mighty  shade  ! 
No  !  Vice,  the  worm,  has  fed  upon  her  bloom  ! 
Look  not  upon  the  slave  ;  sleep,  Virgil,  in  thy  tomb  ! 

JYe w    Times. 


EPITAPH, 

ON    AN    IDEOT    GIRL. 

IF  the  innocent  are  favourites  of  Heaven  ; — 
And  God  but  little  asks  where  little's  given, 
Thy  great  Creator  hath  for  thee  in  store 
Eternal  joys. — What  wise  man  can  have  more  ? 


96  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  MOSLEM  BRIDAL  SONG. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

THERE  is  a  radiance  in  tlie  sky, 

A  flush  of  gold,  and  purple  dye  ! 

Night  lingers  in  the  west  ;  the  sun 

Floats  on  the  sea. — The  day's  begun. 

The  wave,  slow  swelling  to  the  shore, 

Gleams  on  the  green  like  silver  ore  ; 

The  grove,  the  cloud,  the  mountain's  brow, 

Are  burning  in  the  crimson  glow  ; 

Yet  all  is  silence, — till  the  gale 

Shakes  its  rich  pinions  from  the  vale. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  ! — Though  heaven 
Had  ne'er  to  man  his  partner  given, 
That  thing  of  beauty,  fatal,  fair, 
Bright,  fickle, — child  of  flame  and  air; 
Yet  such  an  hour,  such  skies  above, 
Such  earth  below,  had  taught  him  love. 

But  there  are  sounds  along  the  gale, — 
Not  murmurs  of  the  grot  or  vale, — 
Yet  wild,  and  sweet,  as  ever  stole 
To  soothe  their  twilight  wanderer's  soul. 
It  comes  from  yonder  jasmine  bower, 
From  yonder  mosque's  enamelled  tower, 
From  yonder  harem's  roof  of  gold, 
From  yonder  castle's  haughty  hold! 
Oh,  strain  of  witchery  !  whoe'er 
That  heard  thee,  felt  not  joy  was  near? 
My  soul  shall  in  the  grave  be  dim 
Ere  it  forgets  that  bridal  hymn. 
'Twas  such  a  morn,  'twas  such  a  tone 
That  woke  me  ; — visions  !  are  you  gone  ? 

The  flutes  breathe  nigh, — the  portals  now 
Pour  out  the  train,  white  veiled,  like  snow 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Upon  its  mountain  summit  spread, 
In  splendour  beyond  man's  rude  tread  ! 
And  o'er  their  pomp,  emerging  far, 
The  bride,  like  morning's  virgin  star. 
And  soon  along  the  eve  may  swim 
The  chorus  of  the  bridal  hymn  ; 
Again  the  bright  processions  move 
To  take  the  last  sweet  veil  from  Love. 
Then  speed  thee  on,  thou  glorious  sun  ! 
Swift  rise,  —  swift  set,  —  be  bright  —  and  done. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THERMOPYLAE. 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 

THEY  fell  devoted,  but  undying  ; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing 
The  waters  murmured  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame  ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay  ; 
Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  mountain  ; 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain  ; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river, 
Rolled,  mingled  with  their  fame,  forever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
That  land  is  Glory's  still,  and  their's ! 
'Tis  still  a  watch-word  to  the  earth  ; — 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth, 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head  ; 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost  or  freedom  won. 
Liberal. 


98  THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

HOUR  of  an  Empire's  overthrow  ! 

The  Princes  from  the  feast  were  gone, 
The  Idol  flame  was  burning  low  ; — 

'Twas  midnight  upon  Babylon. 

That  night  the  feast  was  wild  and  high  ; 

That  night  was  Sion's  gold  profaned  ; 
The  seal  was  set  to  blasphemy  ; 

The  last  deep  cup  of  wrath  was  drained, 

'Mid  jewelled  roof  and  silken  pall, 
Belshazzar  on  his  couch  was  flung  ; 

A  burst  of  thunder  shook  the  hall — 

He  heard — but  'twas  no  mortal  tongue  :- 

1  King  of  the  East,  the  trumpet  calls, 
That  calls  thee  to  a  tyrant's  grave  ; 

A  curse  is  on  thy  palace  walls — 
A  curse  is  on  thy  guardian  wave  ; 

*  A  surge  is  in  Euphrates'  bed, 
That  never  filled  its  bed  before ; 

A  surge,  that,  ere  the  morn  be  red, 

Shall  load  with  death  its  haughty  shore. 

'  Behold  a  tide  of  Persian  steel ! 

A  torrent  of  the  Median  car  ; 
Like  flame  their  gory  banners  wheel ; 

Rise,  King,  and  arm  thee  for  the  war !' 

Belshazzar  gazed  ;  the  voice  was  past — 
The  lofty  chamber  filled  with  gloom  ; 

But,  echoed  on  the  sudden  blast, 
The  rushing  of  a  mighty  plume. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

He  listened  ;  all  again  was  still ; 

He  heard  no  chariot's  iron  clang  ; — 
He  heard  the  fountain's  gushing  rill, 

The  breeze  that  through  the  roses  sang. 

He  slept : — in  sleep  wild  murmurs  came  ; 

A  visioned  splendour  fired  the  sky  ; 
He  heard  Belshazzur's  taunted  name  ; — 

He  heard  again  the  Prophet  cry — 

*  Sleep,  Sultan  !  'tis  thy  final  sleep  ; 

Or  wake,  or  sleep,  the  guilty  dies. 
The  wrongs  of  those  who  watch  and  weep, 

Around  thee  and  thy  nation  rise,' 

He  started,  'mid  the  battle's  yell, 
He  saw  the  Persian  rushing  on  ; 

He  saw  the  flames  around  him  swell : — 
Thou'rt  ashes  !  King  of  Babylon. 

New  Times. 


WITHERED  VIOLETS. 

BT    WILLIAM    READ,    ESQ. 

LONG  years  have  passed,  pale  flowers,  since  you 
Were  culled,  and  given  in  brightest  bloom, 

By  one  whose  eyes  eclipsed  your  blue, 

Whose  breath  was  like  your  own  perfume. 

Long  years — but  though  your  bloom  be  gone, 
The  fragrance,  which  your  freshness  shed, 

Survives,  when  memory  lingers  on, 

When  all  that  blessed  its  birth  have  fled. 

Those  hues  and  hopes  will  pass  away  ; — 
Thus  youth,  and  bloom,  and  bliss,  depart ; 

Oh  what  is  left  when  these  decay  ! — 
The  faded  leaf,  the  withered  heart ! 

London  Magazine. 


100  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  DEAD  SEA. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

THE  wind  blows  chill  across  those  gloomy  waves; — 
Oh  !  how  unlike  the  green  and  dancing  main  ! 

The  surge  is  foul  as  if  it  rolled  o'er  graves  ; — 
Stranger,  here  lie  the  cities  of  the  plain. 

Yes,  on  that  plain,  by  wild  waves  covered  now, 

Rose  palace  once,  and  sparkling  pinnacle  ; 
On  pomp  and  spectacle  beamed  morning's  glow, 

On  pomp  and  festival  the  twilight  fell. 

Lovely  and  splendid  all, — but  Sodom's  soul 

Was  stained  with  blood,  and  pride,  and  perjury  ; 

Long  warned,  long  spared,  till  her  whole  heart  was  foul, 
And  fiery  vengeance  on  its  clouds  came  nigh. 

And  still  she  mocked,  and  danced,  and,  taunting,  spoke 
Her  sportive  blasphemies  against  the  Throne  : — 

It  came  ! — The  thunder  on  her  slumber  broke  : — 

God  spake  the  word  of  wrath  I — Her  dream  was  done. 

Yet,  in  her  final  night,  amid  her  stood 

Immortal  messengers,  and  pausing  Heaven 
Pleaded  with  man,  but  she  was  quite  imbued, 

Her  last  hour  waned  she  scorned  to  be  forgiven  ! 

'Twas  done  ! — Down  poured  at  once  the  sulphurous  shower, 
Down  stooped,  in  flame,  the  heaven's  red  canopy. 

Oh  !  for  the  arm  of  God,  in  that  fierce  hour  ! — 
'Twas  vain,  nor  help  of  God  or  man  was  nigh. 

They  rush,  they  bound,  they  howl,  the  men  of  sin  ; — 
Still  stooped  the  cloud,  still  burst  the  thicker  blaze  ; 

The  earthquake  heaved  1 — Then  sank  the  hideous  din  1 — 
Yon  wave  of  darkness  o'er  their  ashes  strays. 

PARIS  !  thy  soul  is  deeper  dyed  with  blood, 
And  long,  and  blasphemous,  has  been  thy  day; 

And,  Paris,  it  were  well  for  thee  that  flood, 

Or  fire,  could  cleanse  thy  damning  stains  away. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  101 


SONG, 

WRITTEN    FOR    AN    INDIAW    AIR. 
BT    THE    LATE   PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY, 

1  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee, 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  burning  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit,  in  my  feet, 
Hath  led  me, — who  knows  how  ! — 

To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet. 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream, 
The  Champak  odours  fail, 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream. 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart : — 
As  I  must  on  thine, 

Beloved  as  thou  art ! 

The  gentle  dews  of  sleep 

Are  falling  on  thine  eye  ; 
And  1,  alas  !  must  weep, 

Thou  know'st  not  I  am  nigh  ! 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  wan, 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; — 
O  !  press  it  to  thine  own, 

Or  it  will  break  at  last ! 
Liberal. 


9* 


102  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

STANZAS, 

WRITTEN    ON    THE    BACK    OF    A    LETTER. 
BY    ISMAEL    F1TZADAM. 

BLEST  be  the  page  affection  traced  ! 

All  welcome  to  the  wanderer's  eye, 
As  roses  springing  'mid  the  waste, 

As  rills  along  the  desert  dry. 

And  blest  the  spirit,  breathing  love, 
That  doubly  every  line  endears, 

While  pensive  memory  pours  above 
The  melancholy  joy  of  tears. 

Sweet  messenger! — Thou  corn'st  to  bless — 
To  tell  one  heart — a  homeless  one — 

That,  in  this  wide  world's  wilderness, 
It  beats  not — cannot  break — alone. 

No,  not  alone,  nor  wholly  lost, 

While  love's  fond  sympathy  can  save  ; 

Still  fond,  but  in  misfortune  most, 

And  burning  brightest  near  the  grave. 

God  !  is  not  this  the  very  hand, 

When  stretched  on  sickness'  rack  1  lay, 

That  wiped,  as  with  a  healing  wand, 
The  bitter  dews  of  pain  away? 

That  ministered  the  cooling  cup 

To  my  parcned  lip? — No  cup  of  glee, — 

Or,  wet  with  tears,  was  lifted  up 

To  Heaven,  in  fervent  prayer  for  me  ? 

Yes,  sister  of  my  soul !  the  part 

Was  thine  long  mouths  to  watch  and  weep 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  103 

The  anguish,  whose  convulsive  start 

Still  mocked  and  murdered  struggling  sleep. 

Beleagured  Nature's  strife  to  view, 

And  every  pang  so  keenly  share, 
That  pity  even  from  me  was  due, 

Who  lay  the  wretch  of  wretches  there. 

In  that  dark  hour,  when  every  tie, 

When  life  itself  was  all  hut  riven, 
Thou  stood'st  a  guardian  angel  hy, 

That  loosed  from  earth,  and  led  to  Heaven. 

Or,  with  unwearied  labour,  prest 

The  '  nerve  where  agonies  were  horn,' 

Soothing  my  midnights — not  of  rest — 
Nor  anxious  for  relief  at  morn. 

And  she — one  other  not  less  dear, 

Oh  !  can  her  love  forgotten  he  ! 
Who,  o'er  that  bed — that  living  bier — 

Shared  all  thy  toils  and  tears  for  me. 

Like  chords  in  music's  holiest  mood, 
Mingling,  but  sweeter  from  control, 

Twin  forms  of  mercy!  there  ye  stood, 
Breathing  one  fond,  devoted  soul ! 

Oh,  nought  of  pure  on  earth  beneath, 
And  scarcely  aught  in  heaven  above, 

Can  match  the  purity,  the  faith, 
The  blessing,  of  a  sister's  love  ! 

Take  thou,  the  fond  return  of^nine, — 
'Tis  all,  save  verse,  that's  mine  to  give, — 

Till  life's  last  pulses  cease,  'tis  thine, 
And  life  itself  it  must  outlive. 


104  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A   DRINKING  SONG. 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 

FILL  the  goblet  again,  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  that  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core  ! 

Let  us  drink  ! — Who  would  not?  Since  through  life's  varied  round 

In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply  ; 

I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye  ; 

I  have  loved  ! — Who  has  not? — But  what  tongue  will  declare, 

That  pleasure  existed  whilst  passion  was  there  ! 

In  the  bright  days  of  youth — when  the  heart's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, — 
I  had  friends  ! — Who  has  not? — But  what  tongue  will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine,  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ! 

The  breast  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange  ; 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sun-beam  ; — thou  never  can'st  change  ! 
Thou  grow'stold  ! — Who  does  not? — But  on  earth  what  appears, 
Whose  virtues  like  thine  but  increase  with  their  years. 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 

Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below  ; 

We  are  jealous  ! — Who's  not  ? — Thou  hast  no  such  alloy, 

For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  they  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  Youth  and  its  jollities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find — Do  we  not? — In  the  flow  of  the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  Box  of  Pandora  was  opened  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left  ! — Was  she  not? — But  the  goblet  we  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  hope  who  are  certain  of  bliss  ! 

Long  life  to  the  grape  !  and  when  summer  is  flown, 

The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own  ; 

We  must  die  ! — Who  shall  not? — May  our  sins  be  forgiven, 

And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  Heaven ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  105 

EPITAPH 

ON     JOSEPH     ATKINSON,    ESQ. 
BY   THOMAS    MOORE,    ES». 

IF  ever  lot  was  prosperously  cast, 

If  ever  life  was  like  the  lengthened  flow 

Of  some  sweet  music,  sweetness  to  the  last, 

'Twas  his,  who,  mourned  by  many,  sleeps  below. 

The  sunny  temper,  bright  where  all  is  strife, — 
The  simple  heart  that  mocks  at  worldly  wiles  ; 

Light  wit,  that  plays  along  the  calm  of  life  ; 
And  stirs  its  languid  surface  into  smiles  ; 

Pure  charity  that  comes  not  in  a  shower, 
Sudden  and  loud,  oppressing  what  it  feeds, 

But  like  the  dew,  with  gradual  silent  power, 
Felt  in  the  bloom  it  leaves  along  the  meads ; 

The  happy  grateful  spirit  that  improves, 
And  brightens  every  gift  by  fortune  given, 

That  wander  where  it  will  with  those  it  loves, 
Makes  every  place  a  home,  and  home  a  heaven. 

All  these  were  his. — Oh  !  thou  who  read'st  this  stone, 
When  for  thyself,  thy  children,  to  the  sky 

Thou  humbly  prayest,  ask  this  boon  alone, — 
That  ye,  like  him  may  live,  like  him  may  die. 

Morning  Chronicle. 


103  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A  RECOLLECTION. 

BT    J.    MOIR,    ESQ. 

SHE  was  a  thing  of  morn — with  the  soft  calm 
Of  summer  evening  iri  her  pensive  air  ; — 
Her  smile  came  o'er  the  gazer's  heart,  like  balm, 
To  soothe  away  all  sorrow  save  despair; 
Her  radiant  brow  scarce  wore  a  tint  of  care, — 
A  sunny  lake  where  imaged  you  might  trace, 
Of  Hope  and  Memory  all  that's  bright  and  fair, 
Where  no  rude  breath  of  passion  carne  to  chase, 
Like  winds  from  summer  waves,  its  heaven  from  that 
sweet  face. 

As  one  who  looks  on  landscapes  beautiful, 
Will  feel  their  spirit  all  his  soul  pervade, — 
Even  as  the  heart  grows  stiller  by  the  lull 
Of  falling  waters,  when  the  winds  are  laid, — 
So  he  who  gazed  upon  that  heavenly  maid 
Imbibed  a  sweetness  never  felt  before !  [ed, 

Oh  !  when  with  her  through  autumn  fields  I've  stray- 
A  brighter  hue  the  lingering  wild  flowers  wore, 
And  sweeter  was  the  song  the  small  bird  warbled  o'er! 

Then  came  Consumption  with  her  languid  moods, 
Her  soothing  whispers,  and  her  dreams  that  seek 
To  nurse  themselves  in  silent  solitudes  ; — 
She  came  with  hectic  glow,  and  wasted  cheek, 
And  still  the  maiden  pined  more  wan  and  weak, 
Till  her  declining  loveliness,  each  day, 
Paled  like  the  second  Bow  ;  yet  would  she  speak 
The  words  of  Hope,  even  while  she  passed  away 
Amid  the  closing  clouds, — and  faded  ray  by  ray  ! 

She  d'ed  in  the  bud  of  Being, — in  the  spring, 
The  time  of  flowers,  and  songs,  and  balmy  air  ; 
'Mid  opening  blossoms  she  was  withering, — 
But  thus  'twas  ever  with  the  good  and  fair, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  107 

The  loved  of  Heaven,  ere  yet  the  hand  of  Care 
Upon  the  snowy  brow  hath  set  his  seal, 
Or  Time's  hoar  frost  come  down  to  blanch  the  hair, 
They  fade  away  and  scape  what  others  feel, — 
The  pangs  that  pass  not  by — the  wounds  that  never  heal ! 

They  laid  her  in  the  robes  that  wrap  the  dead, 
So  beautiful  in  rest  ye  scarce  might  deem, 
From  form  so  fair,  the  gentle  spirit  fled, 
But  only  lulled  in  some  Itllysian  dream  ; 
And  still  the  glory  of  a  vanished  beam, 
The  lingering  halo  of  a  parted  ray, 
Shed  o'er  her  lovely  sleep  its  latest  gleam  ; 
Like  evening's  rose-light  when  the  summer  day 
Hath  fled  o'er  sea  and  shore  and  faded  far  away  ! 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BUST   OF  TASSO. 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    MATTHIAS. 
BY    THE    REV.    ARCHDEACON    \VRANGHAM. 

HERE  in  these  groves,  of  every  Muse  the  haunt, 
By  life's  rough  tempests  shattered  and  opprest, 
Torquato  from  his  toils  aspired  to  rest, 

And  in  their  sheltering  bowers,  lone  habitant, 

Has  found  safe  refuge.     Here  their  magic  quire, 
Still,  the  sweet  Sirens  hold ;  and,  by  the  side 
Of  echoing  streams,  the  swan  in  stately  pride 

Nests  'mid  the  strings  of  the  melodious  lyre. 

Then  Stranger,  whether  from  the  icy  pole — 
Buoyant  of  heart — or  where  the  blazing  noon 
Scorches  swart  Afric's  race,  thou.sojourn'st  here, 

To  this  bright  marble  bow  thy  reverend  soul, 
And  o'er  the  bust  of  Sebeth's  glorious  son 
Strew  pious  flowers,  and  shed  the  holy  tear. 

Literary  Museum. 


108  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


RICHMOND   HILL. 

SWEET  Richmond  !  Like  a  woodland  queen 

Thou  sittest  on  thy  throne  of  green — 

Smiling  around,  on  bank  and  bower, 

And  grove,  and  mead,  and  tree,  and  flower; 

As  each  presents  its  verdant  gem 

To  wreathe  thy  rustic  diadem  ; 

While  Thames'  soft  waves,  with  murmurs  sweet, 

Lie  gently  at  thy  flower-clad  feet, 

And  still,  to  leave  thy  beauties  slow, 

Flow  sparkling  through  the  vale  below  ; 

As  devious  in  its  path,  and  wild, 

As  fits  old  Ocean's  favourite  child: 

But  how  unlike  the  strenuous  force 

With  which  he  runs  his  manlier  course, 

What  time  he  rushes  to  the  Ocean  tide, 

And  on  his  ample  stream  his  country's  bulwarks  ride  ! 

Sweet  Richmond!  In  thy  terraced  grove 
How  many  a  flattering  tale  of  love, 
And  hope,  and  bliss  and  faith  sincere, 
Have  stolen  on  Beauty's  listening  ear  ! 
And  many  a  warm,  impassioned  vow 
Been  breathed  by  lips — cold,  silent  now  ! 
And  many  a  matron,  bowed  with  years, 
And  toils  and  griefs,  and  pains  and  fears, 
With  tearful  eye  remember  still 
Past  hours  of  joy  on  Richmond  Hill ! 

The  Child,  in  life's  sweet  opening  day, 
Bounds  o'er  thy  meads,  in  antic  play, 
As  fresh  and  fair  as  Spring's  gay  morn 
That  breaks  upon  thy  fairy  lawn  ; — 
And  youth  beholds  thy  prospects  rise, 
Luxuriant  woods,  and  splendid  skies ; 
And  lovely  as  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Hope  fondly  paints  his  future  hours  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  109 

All  sunshine,  beauty,  light  and  love, 

As  Summer's  rosy  noon  in  Richmond's  flowery  grove. 


And  Manhood  marks  the  magic 
With  thoughtful  eye  and  serious  mien, 
Nor  sees  unmoved  thy  verdant  crown 
Exchanged  for  wreath  of  Autumn  hrovvn  ; 
But  sighs  to  think  the  hour  must  come, 
Shall  wrap  thy  lovely  brow  in  gloom, 
When  Winter  brings  its  hours  of  ill, 
Alike,  to  life  and  Richmond  Mill  ! 

Then,  wandering  forth  at  evening  hour, 
Old  Age  shall  view  thy  lonely  bower,  — 
The  frozen  si  ream  —  the  leafless  tree  — 
And  sigh,  to  deem  itself  like  ihee  ! 
Joy,  pleasure,  beauty,  fled  and  gone  !  — 
Cold,  helpless,  lifeless,  sad  and  lone  ! 
With  one  sole  hope,  that,  Winter  past, 
A  lovelier  day  shall  dawn  at  last- 
Arid  hours  of  bliss,  and  glory,  still 
Shall  beam  on  man,  and  Richmond  Hill! 

Morning  Herald.  W.  H.  M. 


A   SKETCH. 

A  DREAM  of  saddest  beauty  :  one  pale  smile 
Its  light  upon  the  blue-veined  forehead  shed, 
As  love  had  lingered  there  one  little  while, 
Robbed  the  cheek  of  its  colour,  and  then  fled, — 
Yet  leaving  a  sweet  twilight  shade,  which  said 
There  had  been  sunshine  once.     Alas  !  the  bloom, 
The  light,  the  hope,  at  Love's  shrine  offered  ! 
Yet  all  in  vain  ! — That  altar  is  a  tomb 
Of  broken  hearts  ! — Its  oracle  but  words  of  doom  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 

10 


110  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  TOURNAMENT. 

LADY,  if  you  love  to  hear 

Tales  of  lofty  chivalry, 
Stealing  Beauty's  sigh  or  tear ; 

List  not,  lady  sweet,  to  me. 

But  there  is  a  gentle  sight, 

Roselike,  always  born  with  May, 

Full  of  arms  and  glances  bright, 
'Tis  GRANADA'S  holyday ! 

Twilight  on  the  west  was  sleeping, 
Stars  were  sliding  down  the  sky, 

Morn  upon  the  hills  was  peeping 
With  a  blue,  half-opening  eye. 

When  a  silver  trumpet  sounded, 

And,  beside  the  castle  wall, 
Many  a  ribboned  jennet  bounded, — 

Sparkled  many  a  lance-head  tall. 

In  the  plain,  balconies  proud, 

Hung  with  silk  and  flowery  chain, 

Like  a  statued  temple,  showed, 

Rank  o'er  rank,  the  dames  of  Spain. 

Soon  the  tapestried  kettle-drums 

Through  the  distant  square  were  pealing  ; 
Soon  was  seen  the  toss  of  plumes 

By  the  Viceroy's  palace  wheeling. 

Then,  before  the  portal  arch, 

Every  horseman  checked  the  rein, 

Till  the  rocket  for  their  march, 
Flaming  up  the  sky  was  seen. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Like  a  wave  of  steel  arid  gold, 
Swept  the  lovely  pageant  on; 

Many  a  champion  young  and  bold 
hearing  lance  and  gonfalon. 

At  their  sight  arose  the  roar 

From  the  people  gazing  round  ; — 

Proudly  came  the  squadrons  four, 
Prancing  up  the  tilting  ground. 

First  they  gallop  where  the  screen 

With  its  silken  tissue  hides 
Fair  Valencia's  jewelled  Queen, — 

Helmless  every  horseman  rides  ! 

Round  the  barrier  then  they  wheel, 
Troop  by  troop,  and  pair  by  pair ; 

Bending  low  the  lance  of  steel 
To  the  bowing  ladies  there. 

Hark!  the  trumpet  long  and  loud! — 
'Tis  the  signal  for  the  charge  ! — 

Now  with  hoofs  the  earth  is  ploughed, — 
Now  are  clashed  the  lance  and  targe. 

Light  as  roe-bucks  bound  the  steeds  ; 

Sunny  bright  the  armour  gleams  ; 
Gallant  charge  to  charge  succeeds, 

Like  the  rush  of  mountain  streams! 

Noon  has  come,— the  warriors  rest, 
Each  dismounting  from  his  barb  ; 

Loosening  each  his  feathery  crest, 
Weighty  sword,  and  steely  garb. 

Then  are  shown  the  lordly  form, 
Chestnut  locks  and  eagle  eyes, 

Cheeks  with  tilting  crimson  warm, 
Lips  for  lover's  perjuries ! 


112  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

As  they  wander  round  the  plain, 
Sparkle  cross  and  collar  gernraed, 

Sparkle  knightly  star  and  chain, 
On  their  tunics  golden-seamed. 

Till  again  the  trumpets  play, 
And  the  mail  again  is  worn  ; 

And  the  ring  is  borne  away, — 
And  the  Moorman's  turban  torn. 

Closes  then  the  tournament ; 

And  the  noble  squadrons  four, 
Proudly  on  the  banquet-tent, 

March  by  Turia's  flowery  shore. 

Lovely  as  the  evening  sky, 
Ere  the  golden  sun  is  down, 

March  Granada's  chivalry, 

Champions  of  the  Church  and  Crown  ! 

One  still  lingered,  pale  and  last, 
By  the  lonely  gallery's  stair, 

As  if  there  his  soul  had  past, 
Vanished  with  some  stately  fair. 

Who  the  knight  ? — To  few  was  known. 

Who  his  love  ? — He  ne'er  would  tell. 
But  her  eyes  were — like  thine  own,- — 

And  his  heart  was, — Oh,  Farewell ! 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


EPITAPH. 

OPHELIA  was  the  maiden's  name, 

Only  her  beauty  died  ; 
Envy  has  nothing  to  proclaim, 

Nor  Flattery  to  hide. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  113 

THE  TREASURES   OF  THE   DEEP. 

BY    MRS.    HEMANS. 

WHAT  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells  ? 

Thou  hollow-sounding-  and  mysterious  Main  ! 
Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow  coloured  shells, 

Bright  things,  which  gleam  unrecked  of  and  in  vain. 
Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea  ! 

We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  Depths  have  more ! — What  wealth  untold, 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness,  lies  ! 

Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies. 

Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  Main  ! 
Earth  claims  not  these  again  ! 

Yet  more,  the  Depths  have  more  !— Thy  waves  have  rolled 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by  ! 
Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry  ! 
Dash  o'er  them,  Ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play, 
Man  yields  them  to  decay  ! 

Yet  more  !  the  Billows  and  the  Depths  have  more ! 

High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, — 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest. 
Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems  thou  stormy  grave  ! — 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  The  lost  and  lovely  ! — Those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long  ; 

The  prayerwent  up  through  midnight's  breathless  gloom. 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal  song  ! 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'erlhrown, 
— But  all  is  not  thine  own  ! 


114  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down  ; 

Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  nohle  head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks  and  beauty's  flowery  crown  ! 

Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice — Restore  the  Dead  ! 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee  ! — 
Restore  the  Dead,  thou  Sea ! 

New  Monthly  Magazine. 


MAGDALENA. 

SILENT  and  lone,  beneath  the  cypress  bough, 
She  sat  and  watched  the  circlets  of  the  night, 

As,  imaged  on  the  waveless  stream  below, 

They  beamed  again  to  heaven  serenely  bright  ! 

She  felt  her  dream  of  happiness  was  gone; 

But  Hope,  still  lingering,  shed  its  heavenly  ray, 
Like  the  fair  star  that  in  those  waters  shone — 

Still  bright,  though  they  were  gliding  fast  away. 

Her  bosom  had  been  stained  in  passion's  hour, 
But  she  had  wept  on  it  her  frailties  past, 

And,  like  the  sullied  lily  by  the  shower, 
Jt  had  been  washed  and  purified  at  last. 

Those  long  dark  lashes,  beaded  still  with  tears — 
The  warm  rose  blanched  upon  her  sunken  cheek — 

The  lip,  which  pallid  as  that  rose  appears, 
Seemed  well  her  silent  penitence  to  speak. 

Her's  was  the  heart's  still  prayer  : — her  lips  were  sealed. 

Those  meek  eyes,  glancing  to  their  kindred  heaven, 
In  dewy  orisons  her  soul  revealed  : 

She  asked  not — but  she  looked  to  be  forgiven. 
Literary  Gazette.  H.  A.  D. 


THE     POETICAL    ALBUM.  115 

ROSALIE. 

A    POETICAL    SKETCH. 

WE  met  in  secret  : — mystery  is  to  love 

Like  perfume  to  the  flower  ;  tlie  maiden's  blush 

Looks  loveliest  when  her  check  is  pale  with  fear. 

By  moonlight  still  I  sought  my  lady's  bower, 

And  there,  'mid  blossoms  fragrant  as  her  sigh, 

I  met  the  beauty  that  my  ;;cul  adored, 

And  listened  for  the  light  feet,  which  like  wind 

Passed  o'er  the  dewy  turf.     Oh  never  can 

That  dear  step  be  forgotten. — It  is  still 

Familiar  as  a  sound  of  yesterday. — 

Our  shrine  of  meeting  was  a  cypress,  which 

Hung  o'er  the  rose,  like  Sorrow  shading  Love  ; — 

This  was  the  temple  where  we  called  the  Night 

To  witness  gentle  vows ;  and  when  each  lip 

Paused  in  the  fulness  of  impassioned  thoughts; — 

Hearkened  those  moonlight  melodies,  which  came 

So  soothingly  upon  that  silent  time  ; 

The  light  cascade,  descending,  shedding  round 

Its  silver  drops  upon  the  orange  blooms, 

That  leant  to  kiss  their  own  fair  images, 

Each  sparkling  wave  a  mirror,  and  sighed  forth 

Their  soul  of  odour  as  they  caught  the  dew  ; 

The  melancholy  music  of  that  bird 

Who  sings  but  to  the  stars,  and  tells  her  tale 

Of  love,  when,  bosomed  by  the  snowy  clouds, 

The  Queen  of  Beauty  lights  her  radiant  lamp, 

Her  own  soft  planet. — And  at  times  there  came 

Like  a  low  echo,  a  faint  murmur,  when 

A  gale  just  laden  with  the  rose's  sigh, 

Swept  the  Eolian  lyre,  and  wakened  sounds 

Of  such  wild  sweetness  that  it  almost  seemed 

The  breath  of  flowers  made  audible. — They  told, 

In  long  departed  days,  when  every  grove 

Was  filled  with  beautiful  imaginings 

And  vJBioned  creations,  that  a  Nymph 


116  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Once  pined  with  unrequited  love  and  sighed 
Away  her  sad  existence.     I  could  think 
She  left  her  last  tone  softly  giving  soul 
To  the  sad  of  that  lonely  lyre  ; 
Or  else,  perchance,  the  spirit  of  some  Bard, 
Whose  life  in  life  was  music,  wandered  o'er 
The  chords,  which  once  with  him  held  sympathy, 
Like  him  neglected,  but  sweet  breathing  still. 

Why  dwell  I  on  these  memories  ?     Alas, 

The  heart  loves  lingering  o'er  the  shadows  left 

By  joys  departed  ! — 'Tvvas  one  summer  night, 

And  our  brief  hour  had  passed  ;  I  know  not  why, 

But  my  soul  felt  disquieted  within  me, 

And  the  next  evening,  when  I  sought  the  grove, 

I  had  a  strange  foreboding  sadness — none 

Were  there  to  welcome  me,  no  silvery  trace 

Of  fairy  footsteps  was  upon  the  grass. 

I  waited  long  and  anxiously  : — none  came. — 

I  wandered  on  ;  it  was  not  in  the  hope 

To  meet  my  ROSALIE  ;  but  it  was  sweet 

To  look  upon  the  stars,  and  think  that  they 

Had  witnessed  our  love.     At  once  a  sound 

Of  music  slowly  rose,  a  sad  low  chant 

Of  maiden  voices,  and  a  faint  light  streamed 

From  out  the  windows  of  a  chapel  near  ; 

I  knew  it  well — 'twas  the  shrine  sacred  to 

Her  patron  saint,  and  ROSALIE  had  said, 

If  ever  1  might  claim  her  as  my  bride 

Before  the  face  of  heaven,  that  altar  should 

Be  where  our  vows  were  given.     I  entered  in, 

And  heard  a  sound  of  weeping,  and  saw  shapes 

Bent  down  in  anguish  ;  in  the  rnidst,  a  bier 

Was  covered  o'er  with  flowers, — sad  offerings  made 

The  dead,  in  vain — and  one  lay  sleeping  there, 

Whose  face  was  veiled. — I  could  not  speak  nor  ask  ; — 

My  heart  was  wild  with  fear, — I  lifted  up 

The  long  white  veil, — I  looked  on  the  pale  cheek 

Of  my  so  worshipped  ROSALIE  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  117 


THE  VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

AND  is  our  country's  father  fled, 

His  car  of  fire  can  none  recall  ? 
Be — here — his  sacred  spirit  shed, 

Here — may  his  prophet  mantle  fall. 
Fain  would  I  fill  the  vacant  breach, 

Stand  where  he  stood  the  plague  to  stay  ; 
In  his  prophetic  spirit  preach, 

And  in  his  hallowed  accents  pray. 

It  is  not  that  on  seraph's  wing, 

I  hope  to  soar  where  he  has  soared  ; — 
This  is  the  only  claim  I  bring, 

I  love  his  church,  I  love  his  Lord. 
I  love  the  altar  of  my  sires, 

Firm  as  my  country's  rocks  of  steel ; 
And  as  I  feed  its  sacred  fires, 

The  present  deity  I  feel. 

I  love  to  know  that,  not  alone, 

I  meet  the  battle's  angry  tide  ; 
That  sainted  myriads  from  the  throne 

Descend  and  combat  by  my  side. 
Mine  is  no  solitary  choice, — 

See,  here,  the  seal  of  saints  impressed! 
The  prayers  of  millions  swell  my  voice; 

The  mind  of  ages  fills  my  breast. 

I  love  the  ivy-mantled  tower, 

Rocked  by  the  storms  of  thousand  years ; 
The  Grave,  whose  melancholy  flower 

Was  nourished  by  a  martyr's  tears, 
The  sacred  Yew,  so  feared  in  war, 

Which,  like  the  sword  to  David  given, 
Inflicted  not  a  human  scar, 

But  lent  to  man  the  arms  of  heaven. 


118  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

I  love  the  organ's  joyous  swell, — 

Sweet  echo  of  the  joyous  ode  ! 
I  love  the  cheerful  village  bell, — 

Faint  emblem  of  the  call  of  God. 
Waked  by  the  sound,  I  bend  my  feet, 

I  bid  my  swelling  sorrows  cease  ; 
I  do  but  touch  the  mercy  seat, 

And  hear  the  still  small  voice  of  peace. 

And  as  the  ray  of  evening  fades, 

I  love  amidst  the  dead  to  stand, 
Where  in  the  chancel's  deepening  shades, 

I  seem  to  meet  the  ghostly  band. 
One  comes  ; — Oh  !  mark  his  sparkling  eye  ! 

I  knew  his  faith,  his  strong  endeavour  ; 
Another — Ah  !  I  hear  him  sigh, 

Alas  !  and  is  he  gone  for  ever  ! 

Another  treads  the  shadowy  aisle, 

I  know  him — 'tis  my  sainted  sire  ; — 
I  know  his  patient  angel  smile, 

His  shepherd  voice,  his  eye  of  fire  ! — 
His  ashes  rest  in  yonder  urn  ; — 

I  saw  his  death  ; — I  closed  his  eye; — 
Bright  sparks  amidst  those  ashes  burn, 

That  death  has  taught  me  how  to  die. 

Long  be  our  Father's  temple  ours, — 

Woe  to  the  hand  by  which  it  falls ; 
A  thousand  spirits  watch  its  towers, 

A  cloud  of  angels  guard  its  walls. 
And  be  their  shield  by  us  possessed  ! 

Lord,  rear  around  thy  blest  abode, 
The  buttress  of  a  holy  breast, 

The  rampart  of  a  present  God! 
Manchester  Exchange  Herald. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  119 

ADDRESS 

TO    THE    EGYPTIAN    MUMMY    IN    BELZONl's    EXHIBITION. 
BY   HORACE   SMITH,    ESa. 

AND  thou  hast  walked  about — how  strange  a  story ! — 
In  Thehes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago  ! 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  Time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous! 

Speak,  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  Dummy  ! 

Thou  hast  a  tongue — come — let  us  hear  its  tune  ! 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above-ground,  Mummy! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  Moon  ; 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  hones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect, — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame? 

Was  Cheops,  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his  name? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden, 
By  oath,  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade, — 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Priest — if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain, — for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 

Hath  hob-a-nobhed  with  Pharoah,  glass  to  glass; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 
Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass  : 


120  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 
A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled  ? 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : — 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  could'st  develope,  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left  it  green  ! — 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  History's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent !  Incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy  vows  ; 
But,  pry  thee,  tell  us  something  of  thyself, — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits,  thou  hast  slumbered,    [ed  ? 
What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures  number- 
Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended,  [tions  ; — 

We  have,  above-ground,  seen  some  strange  muta- 
The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen, — we  have  lost  old  nations  ; 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
When  the  great  Persian  Conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb,  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold : — 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  121 

A  heart  hath  throbbed'beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  rolled. 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name,  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh  !— Immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence, 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judgment  morning, 
When  the  greatTrump  shall  thrill  tliee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 
O  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 

Neiv  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE  FORSAKEN  HEART. 

Mr  heart  is  like  a  lonely  lyre, 

Whose  melody  hath  died  away  : 
The  flame  of  a  neglected  fire, 
Burning  away. 

And  thou  art  as  the  careless  fingers, 

Which  tore  those  tuneless  strings  away  ; 
The  gale,  which  as  the  last  spark  lingers, 
Wastes  it  away. 

The  world,  the  senseless  world  remembers, 

The  music,  which  hath  passed  away : 
Its  tears  have  steeped  the  cold,  cold  embers  ; 

But  thou  art  gay. 
Literary  Gazette. 

11 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

GYPSIES. 

BY    THE    REV.    J.    BERESFORD. 

UNDERNEATH  the  greenwood  tree, 
There  we  dwell  right  merrily, 
Lurking  in  the  grassy  lane, 
Here  this  hour — then  gone  again. 
You  may  see  where  we  have  been, 
By  the  burned  spot  on  the  green  ; 
By  the  oak's  branch  drooping  low, 
Withered  in  our  faggot's  glow  ; 
By  the  grass  and  hedge-row  cropped, 

Where  our  asses  have  been  grazing  ; 
By  some  old  torn  rag  we  dropped, 

When  our  crazy  tents  were  raising  ; — 
You  may  see  where  we  have  been  ; 
Where  we  are — that  is  not  seen. 
Where  we  are, — it  is  no  place 
For  a  lazy  foot  to  trace. 
Over  heath  and  over  field, 

He  must  scramble  who  would  find  us ; 
In  the  copse-wood  close  concealed, 

With  a  running  brook  behind  us. 
JElere  we  list  no  village  clocks  ; 
Livelier  sound  the  farm-yard  cocks, 
Crowing,  crowing  round  about, 
As  if  to  point  their  roostings  out ; 
And  many  a  cock  shall  cease  to  crow, 
Or  ere  we  from  the  copse-wood  go. 

On  the  stream  the  trout  are  leaping  ; 
Midway  there  the  pike  is  sleeping, — 
Motionless,  self-poised  he  lies — 
Stir  but  the  water — on  he  flies, 
E'en  as  an  arrow  through  the  skies ! 
We  could  tie  the  noose  to  snare  him, 
But  by  day  we  wisely  spare  him  ; — 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Nets  shall  scour  the  stream  at  night, 
By  the  cold  moon's  trusty  light  ; — 
Scores  of  fish  will  not  surprise  her, 

Writhing  with  their  glittering  scales  ; 
She'll  look  on,  none  else  the  wiser, 

Give  us  light,  and  tell  no  tales  ; 
And  next  day  the  sporting  squire 
Of  his  own  trout  shall  he  the  buyer. 
Till  the  farmer  catch  us  out, 
Prowling  his  rich  barns  about ; — 
Till  the  squire  suspect  the  fish  ; 

Till  the  keeper  find  his  hares, 

Struggling  in  our  nightly  snares  ; 
Till  the  girls  have  ceased  to  wish, 
Heedless  what  young  lad  shall  be 
Theirs  in  glad  futurity  ; 
Till  the  boors  no  longer  hold 

Awkwardly  their  rough  hands  out, 
All  to  have  their  fortunes  told 

By  the  cross  lines  thereabout ; — 
Till  these  warnings,  all  or  some, 
Raise  us — (not  by  beat  of  drum — !} 
On  our  careless  march  to  roam, 
The  copse  shall  be  our  leafy  home. 
Literary  Gazette. 


123 


IMPROMPTU 

ADDRESSED    TO    THE     BEAUTIFUL    AND     ACCOMPLISHED 
LADY    C. 

BY    THE    REV.    C.    COLTOIT. 

Br  Nature  formed,  at  all  points,  to  excel, 

AH  things  to  do, — write,  speak,  and  all  things  well, 

Transcendent  with  thy  pencil  as  thy  pen, 

With  this  you've  conquered  women,  that  the  men  ; 

Both  sexes,  thus,  thy  full  dominion  prove 

O'er  each  ; — by  envy  this,  and  this  by  love ; 

Both  titles  too  thou'st  won,  then  deign  to  wear, 

We  see  a  Venus,  but  a  Pallas  hear  ! 


124          THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 


JEMIMA,  ROSE  AND  ELEANORE. 

THREE     CELEBRATED     SCOTTISH     BEAUTIES. 
BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL,    ESft. 

ADIEU  !  Romance's  heroines  ! 

Give  me  the  nymphs  who  this  good  hour 
May  charm  me,  not  in  fiction's  scenes, 

But  teach  me  beauty's  living  power  ; — 
My  harp,  that  has  been  mute  too  long, 

Shall  sleep  at  beauty's  name  no  more, 
So  but  your  smiles  reward  my  song, 

Jemima,  Rose  and  Eleanore, — 

In  whose  benignant  eyes  are  beaming 

The  rays  of  purity  and  truth, 
Such  as  we  fancy  woman's  seeming, 

In  the  creation's  golden  youth. 
The  more  I  look  upon  thy  grace, 

Rosina,  I  could  look  the  more, 
But  for  Jemima's  witching  face, 

And  the  sweet  voice  of  Eleanore. 

Had  I  been  Lawrence,  kings  had  wanted 

Their  portraits,  till  I'd  painted  yours, 
And  these  had  future  hearts  enchanted, 

When  this  poor  verse  no  more  endures ; 
I  would  have  left  the  Congress  faces, 

A  dull-eyed  diplomatic  corps, 
Till  I  had  grouped  you  as  the  Graces, 

Jemima,  Rose  and  Eleanore. 

The  Catholic  bids  fair  saints  befriend  him  ; 

Your  poet's  heart  is  catholic  too  ; 
His  rosary  shall  be  flowers  ye  send  him, 

His  saint -days  when  he  visits  you  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  125 

And  ray  sere  laurels  for  rny  duty, 

Miraculous,  at  your  toucli  would  rise, 

Could  I  give  verse  one  trait  of  beauty, 

Like  that,  which  glads  me  from  your  eyes. 

Unsealed  by  you,  these  lips  have  spoken, 

Disused  to  song  for  many  a  day ; 
,  Ye've  tuned  a  harp  whose  strings  were  broken, 

And  warmed  a  heart  of  callous  clay  ; 
So  when  my  fancy  next  refuses, 

To  twine  for  you  a  garland  more, 
Come  back  again  and  be  rny  Muses, 

Jemima,  Rose  and  Eleanore. 
Constables  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

BY     PERCY     BYSSHE     SHELLEY. 

THE  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  river  with  the  ocean  ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things,  by  a  law  divine, 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  ; — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another! 
No  leaf  or  flower  would  be  forgiven, 

If  it  disdained  to  kiss  its  brother; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea: 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 
11* 


126  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  STORM. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THE  sun  went  down  in  beauty; — not  a  cloud 

Darkened  its  radiance, — yet  there  might  be  seen 

A  few  fantastic  vapours  scattered  o'er 

The  face  of  the  blue  heavens  ;   some  fair  and  slight 

As  the  pure  lawn  that  shields  the  maiden's  breast, — 

Some  shone  like  silver, — some  did  stream  afar — 

Faint  and  dispersed — like  the  Pale  Horse's  mane, 

Which  Death  shall  stride  hereafter,-some  were  glittering 

Like  dolphin's  scales,  touched  out  with  varying  hues 

Of  beautiful  light — outvying  some  the  rose, 

And  some  the  violet,  yellow,  white  and  blue, 

Scarlet  and  purpling  red. — One  small  lone  ship 

Was  seen  with  outstretched  sails,  keeping  its  way 

In  quiet  o'er  the  deep  ;   all  nature  seemed 

Fond  of  tranquillity  ;   the  glassy  sea 

Scarce  rippled — the  halcyon  slept  upon  the  wave  ; 

The  winds  were  all  at  rest, — and  in  the  east 

The  crescent  moon — then  seen  imperfectly — 

Came  onwards,  with  the  vesper  star,  to  see 

A  summer  day's  decline. 

The  sun  went  down  in  beauty  ; — but  the  eyes 

Of  ancient  seamen  trembled,  when  they  saw 

A  small  black  ominous  spot  far  in  the  distance  : — 

It  spread  and  spread — larger  and  dark — and  came 

O'ershadowing  the  skies  ; — the  ocean  rose  ; 

The  gathering  waves  grew  large,  and  broke   in  hoarse 

And  hollow  sounds  ; — the  Fnighty  winds  awoke, 

And  screamed  andvvhistled  through  the  cordage; — birds, 

That  seemed  to  have  no  home,  flocked  there  in  terror, 

And  sat  with  quivering  plumage  on  the  mast. 

Flashes  were  seen,  and  distant  sounds  were  heard — 

Presages  of  a  storm. — 

The  sun  went  down  in  beauty — but  the  skies 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  127 

Were  wildly  changed. — It  was  a  dreadful  night — 

No  moon  was  seen,  in  all  the  heavens,  to  aid 

Or  cheer  the  loan  and  sea-beat  mariner  : — 

Planet  nor  guiding  star  broke  through  the  gloom  ; — 

But  the  blue  light'nings  glared  along  the  waters, 

As  if  the  Fiend  had  fired  his  torch  to  light 

Some  wretches  to  their  graves. — The  tempest  winds 

Raving  came  next,  and  in  deep  hollow  sounds — 

Like  those  the  spirits  of  the  dead  do  use 

When  they  would  speak  their  evil  prophecies — 

Muttered  of  death  to  come  ; — then  came  the  thunder, 

Deepening  and  crashing  as  'twould  rend  the  world; 

Or,  as  the  Deity  passed  aloft  in  anger 

And  spoke  to  man — despair! — The  ship  was  tossed 

And  now  stood  poised  upon  the  curling  billows, 

And  now  midst  deep  and  watery  chasms — that  yawned 

As  'twere  in  hunger — sank. — Behind  there  came 

Mountains  of  moving  water, — with  a  rush 

And  sound  of  gathering  power,  that  did  appal 

The  heart  to  look  on  ; — terrible  cries  were  heard  ; 

Sounds  of  despair, — some  like  a  mother's  anguish — 

Some  of  intemperate,  dark  and  dissolute  joy — 

Music  and  horrid  mirth — but  unallied 

To  joy  ; — and  madness  might  be  heard  amidst 

The  pauses  of  the  storm — and  when  the  glare 

Was  strong,  rude  savage  men  were  seen  to  dance 

In  frantic  exultation  on  the  deck, 

Though  all  was  hopeless. — Hark  !  the  ship  has  struck, 

And  the  forked  light'ning  seeks  the  arsenal ! — 

'Tis  fired — and  mirth  and  madness  are  no  more  ! 

'Midst  columned  smoke,  deep  red,  the  fragments  fly 

In  fierce  confusion — splinters  and  scorched  limbs, 

And  burning  masts,  and  showers  of  gold, — torn  from 

The  heart  that  hugged  it  even  till  death.     Thus  doth 

Sicilian  Etna  in  her  angry  moods, 

Or  Hecla  'mid  her  wilderness  of  snows, 

Shoot  up  its  burning  entrails,  with  a  sound 

Louder  than  e'er  the  Titans  uttered  from 

Their  subterranean  caves,  when  Jove  enchained 


128  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Them,  daring  and  rebellious.     The  black  skies 
Shocked  at  the'  excess  of  light,  returned  the  sound 
In  frightful  echoes, — as  if  an  alarm 
Had  spread  through  all  the  elements  : — then  came 
A  horrid  silence — deep — unnatural — like 
The  quiet  of  the  grave  ! — 
Literary  Gazette. 


LINES 

ON     LEAVING     LLANDOGO,    A    VILLAGE      ON     THE     BANKS 
OF     THE     WTE. 

SWEET  spot !  I  leave  thee  with  an  aching  heart, 
As  down  the  stream  my  boat  glides  smoothly  on  ; 

With  thee,  as  if  1  were  a  swain,  I  part, 
And  thou  the  maiden  that  I  doated  on. 

I  ne'er  shall  view  yon  woody  glen  again  ; 

That  lowly  church,  calm  promiser  of  rest  ; 
Yon  white  cots,  free  from  riches  and  from  pain, 

Fantastic  gems  upon  the  mountain's  breast. 

Fast,  fast,  thou'rt  fading  from  my  longing  sight ; 

The  next  bold  turn,  and  thou  art  gone  for  aye, — 
A  dream's  bright  remnant  on  a  summer  night — 

The  faint  remembrance  of  a  love  gone  by. 

Farewell !  and  if  Fate's  distant  unknown  page 
Doom  me  to  wreck  on  Passion's  angry  sea, 

I'll  leave  Philosophy  to  reasoning  age, 

And  charm  the  tempest  with  a  thought  on  thee. 

Etonian. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  129 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    ON     THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF     THE     JBIRTH-DAT 
OF    ROBERT    BURNS. 

BY   JAMES    MONTGOMERY,    ESft. 

WHAT  bird  in  beauty,  flight  or  song, 

Can  with  the  Bard  compare, 
Who  sang  as  sweet,  and  soared  as  strong, 

As  ever  child  of  air  ! 

His  plume,  his  note,  his  form,  could  BURNS, 

For  whim  or  pleasure,  change  ! 
He  was  not  one, — but  all,  by  turns, — 

With  transmigration  strange  ! — 

The  Blackbird,  oracle  of  Spring, 

When  flowed  his  moral  lay ; — 
The  Swallow,  wheeling  on  the  wing, 

Capriciously  at  play  ; — 

The  Humming  bird,  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

Inhaling  heavenly  balm  ; — 
The  Raven  in  the  tempest's  gloom  ; — 

The  Halcyon,  in  the  calm  ; — 

In  '  auld  Kirk  Alloway,'  the  Owl, 

At  witching  time  of  night ; — 
By  *  bonnie  Doon,'  the  earliest  fowl, 

That  carolled  to  the  light. 

He  was  the  Wren  amidst  the  grove, 

When  in  his  homely  vein  ; — 
At  Bannockburn,  the  Bird  of  Jove, 

With  thunder  in  his  train  ; — 


130  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

The  Woodlark,  in  his  mournful  hours  ; 

The  Goldfinch,  in  his  mirth  ; 
The  Thrush,  a  spendthrift  of  his  powers, 

Enrapturing  heaven  and  earth  ; — 

The  Swan,  in  majesty  and  grace, 

Contemplative  and  still ; 
But  roused, — no  Falcon  in  the  chace 

Could,  like  his  satire,  kill! — 

The  Linnet,  in  simplicity; 

In  tenderness,  the  Dove  ; — 
But  more  than  all  beside,  was  He 

The  Nightingale,  in  love. 

Oh  !  had  he  never  stooped  to  shame, 

Nor  lent  a  charm  to  vice, 
How  had  Devotion  loved  to  name 

That  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

Peace  to  the  dead  ! — In  Scotia's  choir 
Of  minstrels,  great  and  small, 

He  sprang  from  his  spontaneous  fire, 

The  Phosnixofthemall! 
Sheffield  Mercury. 


EPITAPH   ON   AN   INFANT. 

BY    8.    T.    COLERIDGE,    ESQ. 

ERE  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came,  with  friendly  care, 

The  opening  bud  to  heaven  conveyed, 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


MARY'S   MOUNT. 

WHO,  standing  on  this  rural  spot, 

With  groves  above,  and  fields  around, 

Would,  pausing,  e'er  indulge  the  thought, 
That  armies  thronged  the  lower  ground  ? 

Or  image  neighing  steed,  or  fear 

That  trump  or  drum  salute  his  ear  ! 

Or  think  tin's  leafy  screen  enfolded 
A  being  of  as  tragic  fate, 
As  lovely,  and  unfortunate, 

As  Nature  ever  moulded  ! 

Traced  like  a  map,  the  landscape  lies 
In  cultured  beauty  stretching  wide  ; 

There,  Pentland's  green  acclivities; 
There,  Ocean,  with  its  azure  tide  ; 

There,  Arthur's  seat ;  and  gleaming  through 

Thy  southern  wing,  Dnnedin  blue! 

While,  in  the  orient,  Lammer's  daughters, 
A  distant  giant  range  are  seen, — 
North  Berwick  Law,  with  cone  of  green, 

And  Bass  amid  the  waters. 

Wrapt  in  the  mantle  of  her  wo, 

Here  agonized  Mary  stood, 
And  saw  contending  hosts  below, 

Opposing,  meet  in  deadly  feud  ; 
With  hilt  to  hilt,  and  hand  to  hand, 
The  children  of  one  mother  land 
For  battle  come.     The  banners  flaunted 
Amid  Carberry's  beechen  grove  ; 
And  kinsmen,  braving  kinsmen,  strove 
Uudaunting  and  undaunted. 

Silent  the  queen  in  sorrow  stood, 

When  Both  well,  starting  forward,  said, 

'The  cause  is  mine — a  nation's  blood, 
Go,  tell  yon  chiefs,  should  not  be  shed  ! 


131 


132  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Go,  bid  the  bravest  beart  advance 

In  single  fight,  to  measure  lance 

With  me,  who  wait  prepared  to  meet  him  !' 
'  Fly  !— Bothwell,  fly  !— It  shall  not  be.' 
She  wept — she  sobbed — on  bended  knee 

Fair  Mary  did  entreat  him. 

*  I  go,'  he  sighed — '  the  war  is  mine, 

A  Nero  could  not  injure  thee  ; — 
My  lot  on  earth  is  sealed,  but  thine 

Shall  long,  and  bright,  and  happy  be  ! — 
This  last  farewell — this  struggle  o'er, 
We  ne'er  shall  see  each  other  more: — 
Now  loose  thy  hold,  poor  broken-hearted  !' — . 
She  faints — she  falls — upon  his  roan 
The  bridle  reins  in  haste  are  thrown — 
The  pilgrim  hath  departed. 

Know  ye  the  tenor  of  his  fate  ? — 
A  fugitive  among  his  own  ; 

Disguised — deserted — desolate — 
A  weed  on  Niagara  thrown  ; 

A  Cain  among  the  sons  of  men  ; 

A  pirate  on  the  ocean  ;  then, 

A  Scandinavian  captive  fettered 

To  die  amid  the  dungeon  gloom, — 
If  earthly  chance,  or  heavenly  doom 

Is  dark  : — but  so  it  mattered. 

Daughter  of  Scotland!  Beautiful, 
Beyond  what  falls  to  human  lot, 
Thy  breathing  features  rendered  dull, 

The  visions  of  a  poet's  thought ! 
Thy  voice  was  music  on  the  deep, 
When  winds  are  hushed,  and  waves  asleep  j 
In  mould  and  mind  by  far  excelling, 
Or  Cleopatra  on  the  wave 
Of  Cydnus  vanquishing  the  brave, 
Or  Troy's  resplendent  Helen  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thy  very  sun  in  clouds  arose, 

Delightful  flower  of  Holyrood  ! 
Thy  span  was  tempest-fraught ; — thy  woes 

Should  make  thee  pitied  by  the  good. 
Poor  Mary  !  an  untimely  tomb 
Was  thine  !  With  prison  hours  of  gloom, 
A  crown,  and  rebel  crowds  beneath  thee  ; 
A  lofty  fate — a  lowly  fall ! 
Thou  wert  a  woman  : — and  let  all 
Thy  faults  be  buried  with  thee  ! 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


133 


13ELLATOR  MORIENS. 

BY     THE     REV.     GEORGE     CROLY. 

IN  the  dim  chamber,  on  his  couch  of  Ind, 
Hung  round  with  crest,  and  sword,  and  knightly  vane, 
Was  stretched  a  cuirassed  form,  that  inly  pined 
With  memories  keener  than  his  mortal  pain  ; 
And  oft  around  his  darkening  eyes  would  strain, 
As  if  some  evil  visitant  were  come  ; 
Then  press  his  wasted  hand  upon  his  brain, 
Mutter  low  words,  and  beckon  through  the  gloom, 
And  grasp  his  couch,  as  if  he  saw  the  opening  tomb. 

The  fearful  secret  murmured  from  his  lips — 
'T\vas  '  Murder  ;'  but  his  voice  was  now  a  sigh  ; 
For  o'er  his  spirit  gathered  swift  eclipse. 
He  strove  to  dash  the  darkness  from  his  eye, 
Then  smote  with  nerveless  hand  upon  his  thigh  ; 
But  there  the  sword  was  not ;  a  deeper  groan, — 
A  start,  as  if  the  Summoner  were  nigh, — 
Told  his  last  pangs  ;  his  eye  was  fixed  as  stone  : — 
There  lay  a  livid  corse,  the  Master  of  a  Throne ! 
JYeio  Times. 

12 


134  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   POESY. 

ART  thou  returned  again  ?     The  labouring  breast, 
The  full  and  swelling  soul,  the  throbbing  brain, 
Are  signs  of  thee  ;  by  these  wert  thou  confessed 
In  the  fierce  glow  of  summer,  in  the  wane 
Of  autumn,  in  the  cloud  and  hurricane 
Of  winter,  and  the  changeful  dawn  of  spring. 
Thou  art  returned,  for  fancy  wakes  the  strain; 
And  as  I  bend  me  to  her  summoning, 
Thy  spell  is  o'er  me  cast,  thy  visions  round  rne  cling. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou?     I  have  felt  thy  power 
When  my  soul  wished  not  for  thee.     I  have  sought 
And  found  thee  not.     In  life's  aspiring  hour, 
Courted  and  worshipped,  to  my  youthful  thought 
No  utterance  thou  gavest.     I  had  wrought 
The  chaplet  for  my  fair  one  ;  I  had  strung 
The  rosary  of  hope,  and  love  had  taught 
My  heart  love's  rhetoric  ;  yet  never  hung 
Thy  charm  upon  my  lips,  thy  numbers  on  my  tongue. 

I  courted  thee  no  longer, — for  the  tomb 
Made  havoc  of  my  hopes,  and  1  became 
The  sport  and  prey  of  sorrow  ;  but  in  gloom 
And  solitude,  in  misery  and  shame, 
In  every  feeling  that  unnerves  the  frame, 
Thy  impulse  was  upon  me  :  then  arose 
Mv  first  and  rude  attempt ;  then  didst  thou  claim 
Thy  long  rejected  suppliant,  and  disclose, 
In  simple  humble  strain,  the  descant  of  his  woes. 

I  will  not,  cannot  flee  thee  !     Thou  must  be 

As  present  on  the  full  and  noisy  mart, 

As  in  the  desert ;  upon  plain  or  sea, 

On  wold,  or  mountain,  of  myself  be  part. 

I  cannot  flee  thee  !     Round  this  widowed  heart 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  135 

Cling,  if  thou  wilt,  but  spare  thy  wearied  slave  ! 
Exert  thy  nobler  power,  thy  greater  heart  ; 
Bid  the  vain  world  resume  whate'er  it  gave, — 
But  speak  of  brighter  hopes, — of  bliss  beyond  the  grave. 
London  Magazine. 


SONG. 

THE  birds  have  sung  themselves  to  rest, 
That  flitted  'round  our  bower  ; 

The  weight  of  the  night-dew  has  bowed 
The  head  of  every  flower  ; 

The  ringing  of  the  hunter's  horn 

Has  ceased  upon  the  hill, 
The  cottage  windows  gleam  with  light, 

The  harvest  song  is  still ; 

And  safe  and  silent  in  the  bay, 
Is  moored  each  fisher's  prow  ; 

Each  wearied  one  has  sought  his  home, 
But  where,  my  love,  art  thou  ? 

I  picked  a  rose,  a  red  blush  rose, 

Just  as  the  dews  begun, 
1  kissed  its  leaves,  but  thought  one  kiss 

Would  be  a  sweeter  one. 

I  kept  the  rose  and  kiss,  I  thought 
How  dear  they  both  would  be  ; 
But  now  I  fear  the  rose  and  kisa 

Are  kept  in  vain  for  thee  ! 
Blackwood's  .Magazine. 


136  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A  CHURCH  YARD  SCENE. 

BY     JOHN     WILSON,    ESQ. 

How  sweet  and  solemn,  all  alone, 

With  reverend  step,  from  stone  to  stone 

In  a  small  village  church-yard  lying, 

O'er  intervening  flowers  to  move — 

And  as  we  read  the  names  unknown, 

Of  young  and  old,  to  judgment  gone, 

And  hear,  in  the  calm  air  above, 

Time  onwards  softly  flying, 

To  meditate,  in  Christian  love, 

Upon  the  dead  and  dying  ! 

Across  the  silence  seem  to  go 

With  dream-like  motion,  wavery,  slow, 

And  shrouded  in  their  folds  of  snow, 

The  friends  we  loved  long,  long  ago  ! 

Gliding  across  the  sad  retreat, 

How  beautiful  their  phantom  feet ! 

What  tenderness  is  in  their  eyes, 

Turned  where  the  poor  survivor  lies, 

'Mid  monitory  sanctities  ! 

What  years  of  vanished  joy  are  fanned 

From  one  uplifting  of  that  hand 

In  its  white  stillness!  When  the  shade 

Doth  glimmeringly  in  sunshine  fade 

From  our  embrace,  how  dim  appears 

This  world's  life  through  a  mist  of  tears  ! 

Vain  hopes!   Wild  sorrows!  Needless  fears! 

Such  is  the  scene  around  me  now:  — 

A  little  church-yard,  on  the  brow 

Of  a  green  pastoral  hill; 

Its  sylvan  village  sleeps  below, 

And  faintly,  here,  is  heard  the  flow 

Of  Woodburn's  summer  rill  ; 

A  place  where  all  things  mournful  meet, 

And,  yet,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet! — 

The  stillest  of  the  still! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  137 

With  what  a  pensive  beauty  fall 
Across  the  mossy  mouldering  wall 
That  rose-trees'  clustered  arches  !  See 
The  rohin-redbreast,  warily, 
Bright  through  the  blossoms  leaves  his  nest : 
Sweet  ingrate  !  through  the  winter  blest 
At  the  firesides  of  men — but  shy 
Through  all  the  sunny-summer  hours, — 
He  hides  himself  among  the  flowers 
In  his  own  wild  festivity. 
What  lulling  sound,  and  shadow  cool, 
Hangs  half  the  darkened  church-yard  o'er, 
From  thy  green  depths,  so  beautiful, 
Thou  gorgeous  sycamore  ! 
Oft  hath  the  lowly  wine  and  bread, 
Been  blest  beneath  thy  murmuring  tent ; 
Where  many  a  bright  and  hoary  head, 
Bowed  nt  that  awful  sacrament. 
Now  nil  beneath  the  turf  are  laid, 
On  which  they  sat  and  sung  and  prayed. 
Alone  that  consecrated  tree 
Ascends  the  tapering  spire,  that  seems 
To  lift  the  soul  up  silently 
To  heaven,  with  all  its  dreams! 
While  in  the  belfry,  deep  and  low, 
From  his  heaved  bosom's  purple  gleams 
The  dove's  continuous  murmurs  flow, 
A  dirge-like  song,— half  bliss,  half  wo, — 
The  voice  so  lonely  seems  ! 
Blackivood's  Magazine. 


12* 


138  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A   GRECIAN  EDEN. 

BY    PERCY    BYSSIIE    SHELLEY. 

IT  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 

Beautiful  as  the  wreck  of  Paradise  ; 

And,  for  the  harbours  are  not  safe  and  good, 

This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude, 

But  for  some  pastoral  people,  native  there. 

Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  sunny  air 

Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold  ; 

Simple  arid  generous,  innocent  and  bold. 

The  blue  ^Egean  girds  this  chosen  home 

With  ever  changing  sound,  and  light  and  foarn, 

Kissing  the  sifted  sands,  and  caverns  hoar  ; 

And  all  the  winds,  wandering  along  the  shore, 

Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide. 

There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide  ; 

And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet  and  pond, 

As  clear  as  elemental  diamond  ; 

And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs ; 

The  light  clear  element,  which  the  Isle  wears 

Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon  flowers, 

Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers, 

And  falls  upon  the  eye-lids  like  faint  sleep  ; 

And  from  the  rnoss,  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 

That  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  the  brain, 

Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain  ; 

And  every  motion,  odour,  beam  and  tone, 

With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison, 

Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul : — they  seem 

Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. 

It  is  a  favoured  spot.     Famine,  or  Blight, 

Pestilence,  War  and  Earthquake  never  light 

Upon  its  mountain-peaks;  blind  vultures,  they 

Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way  ; 

The  winged  storms  chanting  their  thunder  psalrn, 

To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 

Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 

From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 

Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  139 


TO   A  CHILD. 

BY    JOA.NNA    BAILLIE. 

WHOSE  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  cheek, 

And  curly  pate,  and  merry  eye, 
And  arm  and  shoulders  round  and  sleek, 

And  soft  and  fair,  thou  urchin  sly  ? 

What  boots  it,  who,  with  sweet  caresses, 
First  called  thee  his,  or  Squire  or  hind  ? 

For  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes, 
Dost  now  a  friendly  playmate  find. 

Thy  downcast  glances,  grave,  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eyelids  rise  and  fall  ; 
Thy  shyness  swiftly  from  me  running  ; — 

'Tis  infantine  coquetry  all ! 

But  far  a-field  thou  hast  not  flown, 

With  mocks  and  threats,  half-lisped,  half-spoken  ;- 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown, — 

Of  right  good  will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh,  and  wrestle  too, — 

A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging  ! 
To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thy  after  kindness  more  engaging  ! 

The  wilding  rose, — sweet  as  thyself, — 

And  new  cropt  daisies  are  thy  treasure  ; — 

I'd  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf, 
To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet,  for  all  thy  merry  look-, 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming, 

When  thou  shall  sit  in  cheerless  nook, 
The  weary  spell  of  horn-book  thumbing. 


140  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Well,  let  it  be  !     Through  weal  and  woe, 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range  ; 

Life  is  a  motley  shifting  show  ; — 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 

Ntiv  Monthly  Magazine. 


VIOLA. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

had  a  form  ;  but  I  might  talk  till  night, 
Young  as  the  sun  is  now  upon  our  watch, 
Kre  I  had  told  its  beauties  ! — It  was  slight, 
Kven  as  yon  willow,  and  like  its  soft  stem, 
Fell  into  thousand  motions,  and  all  lovely  ! 
But  for  her  cheek, — look  on  those  streaks  of  rose 
Tinting  the  white  clouds  o'er  us!     Now  and  then 
A  flush  of  deeper  crimson  lighting  up 
Their  wreaths,  like  wind  kissed  lilies  of  the  vale  ; — 
And  now  and  then,  a  long,  rich,  ebon  tinge, 
Floating  between  them  ! — There  I  think  I  see 
Still, —  though  she's  in  her  grave — the  cheek  I  loved, 
With  the  dark  tress  that  veiled  it.     When  1  sat 
Beneath  her  eye,  I  felt  its  splendour  on  me 
Like  a  bright  spell. — "fis  not  the  diamond's  ray, 
Nor  vesper  starlight,  nor  aught  beautiful 
In  that  ascending  sun,  or  in  this  world, 
Can  bring  me  back  its  image  ; — 'twas  a  soul 
That  has  no  portraiture  on  earth  ;  a  beam 
As  we  have  heard  of  Angels,  where  no  lips 
Are  wanted  to  give  utterance  to  the  thought ; 
Her  eye  was  radiant  thought.     Yet  when  her  voice 
Spoke  to  me,  or,  at  evening  o'er  her  lute, 
Breathed  some  old  melody,  or  closed  the  day 
With  her  due  Hymn  to  the  Virgin,  I  have  turned, 
Even  from  the  glory  of  her  eye,  to  weep, 
With  sudden  keenness  of  delight.     Those  tears, 
On  earth,  1  weep  no  more. — She's  in  the  grave! 
JVeiv  Times. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  141 

TO  THE  IVY. 

BT     MRS.     HEMANS. 

OH  !  how  could  fancy  crown  with  thee 

In  ancient  days,  the  God  of  wine, 
And  bid  thee  at  the  banquet  b« 

Companion  of  the  vine  ? 
Thy  home,  wild  plant,  is  where  each  sound 

Of  revelry  hath  long  been  o'er  ; 
Where  song's  full  notes  once  pealed  around, 

But  now  are  heard  no  more  ! 

The  Roman,  on  his  battle-plains, 

Where  Kings  before  his  eagles  bent, 
Entwined  thee  with  exulting  strains, 

Around  the  Victor's  tent ; 
Yet,  there,  though  fresh  in  glossy  green, 

Triumphally  thy  boughs  might  wave, 
Better  thou  lov'st  the  silent  scene, 

Around  the  Victor's  grave. 

Where  sleep  the  sons  of  ages  flown, 

The  bards  and  heroes  of  the  past ; — 
Where  through  the  halls  of  glory  gone 

Murmurs  the  wintry  blast ; 
Where  years  are  hastening  to  efface 

Each  record  of  the  grand  and  fair  ; — 
Thou,  in  thy  solitary  grace, 

Wreath  of  the  tomb  !  art  there. 

Thou  o'er  the  shrines  of  fallen  gods, 

On  classic  plains  dost  mantling  spread, 
And  veil  the  desolate  abodes 

And  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
Deserted  palaces  of  Kings, — 

Arches  of  triumph,  long  o'erthrown, — 
And  all  once-glorious  earthly  things, 

At  length  are  thine  alone. 


143  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Oh  !  many  a  temple,  once  sublime 

JJeneath  a  blue,  Italian  sky, 
Hath  nought  ofbeauty  left  by  time, 

Save  thy  wild  tapestry  ! 
Arid  reared  'midst  crags  and  clouds  'tis  thine 

To  wave  where  banners  waved  of  yore, 
O'er  mouldering  towers  by  lovely  Rhine 

Cresting  the  rocky  shore. 

High  from  the  fields  of  air,  look  down, 

Those  eyries  of  a  vanished  race, 
Homes  of  the  mighty,  whose  renown 

Hath  passed,  and  left  no  trace  ; 
But  thou  art  there  ! — Thy  foliage  bright, 

Unchanged,  the  mountain  storm  can  brave,- 
Thou  that  will  climb  the  loftiest  height, 

And  deck  the  humblest  grave. 

The  breathing  forms  of  Parian  stone, 

That  rise  round  grandeur's  marble  halla,-^ — 
The  vivid  hues  by  painting  thrown, 

Kich  o'er  the  glowing  walls, — 
The  Acanthus  on  Corinthian  fanes, 

In  sculptured  beauty  waving  fair  ; — . 
These,  perish  all— and  what  remains  ? 

Thou- — thou  alone  art  there  ! 

'Tis  still  the  same — where'er  we  tread, 

The  wrecks  of  human  power  we  see  ; 
The  marvels  of  all  ages  fled, 

Left  to  Decay  and  thee  ! 
And  still  let  man  his  fabrics  rear, — 

August  in  beauty,  grace  and  strength, — 
Days  pass,  thou  Ivy  never  sere, 

And  all  is  thine  at  length. 
Literary  Gazette, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  14S 


THK  RETURN   FROM  INDIA, 

WRITTEN    BY    AN    OFFICER,     LONG    RESIDENT     IN     INDIA, 
ON    HIS    RETURN    TO    ENGLAND. 

I  CAME,  but  tlioy  had  passed  away — 
The  fair  in  form,  The  pure  in   mind, — 

And  like  a  stricken  deer  I  stray, 

Where  all  are  strange,  and  none  arc  kind, — 

Kind  to  the  worn,  the  wearied  soul, 
That  pants,  that  struggles  for  repose  : 

0  !   that  my  steps  had  reached  the  goal 
Where  earthly  sighs  and  sorrows  close  ! 

Years  have  passed  o'er  me  like  a  dream, 
That  leaves  no  trace  on  memory's  page  ! 

1  look  around  me,  arid  I  seem 

Some  relict  of  a  former  age. 
Alone, — as  in  a  stranger  clime, 

Where  stranger  voices  mock  my  ear, — 
I  mark  the  lagging  course  of  time, 

Without  a  wish — a  hope — a  fear! 

Oh  I  had  hopes — but  they  are  fled  ! 

And  J  had  fears,  which  proved  too  true! 
My  wishes  too  ! — but  they  are  dead, — 

And  what  have  I  with  life  to  do  ! 
'Tis  but  to  bear  a  weary  load, 
.    I  may  not,  dare  not,  cast  away  ! 
To  sigh  for  one  small,  still  abode, 

Where  I  may  sleep  as  sweet  as  they  ! — 

As  they,— the  loveliest  of  their  race  ! — 

Whose  grassy  tombs  my  sorrows  steep  ; 
Whose  worth  my  soul  delights  to  trace, — 

Whose  very  loss  'tis  sweet  to  weep  ; 
To  weep  beneath  the  silent  moon, 

With  none  to  chide,  to  hear,  to  see  ! — 
Life  can  bestow  no  dearer  boon, 

On  one  whom  death  disdains  to  free. 


144  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

I  leave  a  world  that  knows  me  not, 

To  hold  communion  with  the  dead; 
And  fancy  consecrates  the  spot, 

Where  fancy's  softest  dreams  are  shed. 
I  see  each  shade,  all  silvery  white — 

I  hear  each  spirit's  melting  sigh  ; 
I  turn  to  clasp  those  forms  of  light, 

And  the  pale  morning  chills  my  eye. 

But  soon  the  last  dim  morn  shall  rise, — 

The  lamp  of  life  burns  feebly  now, — 
When  stranger  hands  shall  close  my  eyes, 

And  smooth  my  cold  and  dewy  brow. 
Unknown  I  live  ; — so  let  me  die  ; — 

Nor  stone,  nor  monumental  cross, 
Tell  where  his  nameless  ashes  lie, 

Who  sighed  for  GOLD,  and  found  it  DROSS. 
London  Magazine. 


SONG. 

THE  ring  you  gave,  the  kiss  you  gave, 

The  curl  of  raven  hair, — 
Pledges  of  truth  and  gifts  of  love, — 

Where  are  they  now  ? — Oh  where  ! 

The  ring  is  broken, — and  by  whom  ? 

The  kiss  has  been  profaned  ; 
And  many,  many  bitter  tears 

That  shining  curl  have  stained  ! — 

Yes,  each  and  all  are  wholly  changed  ! — 
More  changed  they  could  not  be  ; 

But  the  worst  change  is  that,  which  time, 

False  one  !  has  wrought  in  thee. 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  145 

TO  THE   PLANET  JUPITER. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE  CROLY. 

I  LOOKED  on  thee,  Jove,  till  my  gaze 
Sank,  smote  from  the  pomp  of  thy  blaze  ; 
For  in  heaven,  from  the  sunset's  red  throne 
To  the  zenith — thy  rival  was  none. 

From  thy  orb  rushed  a  torrent  of  light, 
That  made  the  stars  dim  in  thy  sight, 
And  the  half-risen  moon  seemed  to  die, 
And  to  leave  thee  the  realm  of  the  sky. 

I  looked  on  the  ocean's  broad  breast — 
The  purple  was  pale  in  the  west; 
But  down  shot  thy  long  silver  spire, 
And  the  waves  were  like  arrows  of  fire. 

I  turned  from  the  infinite  main, 
And  thy  light  was  the  light  of  the  plain, 
'Twas  the  beacon  that  blazed  on  the  hill: — 
Thou  wert  proud,  pure,  magnificent  still. 

A  cloud  spread  its  wing  over  heaven  : — 
By  the  shaft  of  thy  splendour  'twas  riven, 
And  I  saw  thy  bright  front  through  it  shine 
Like  a  God  from  the  depth  of  his  shrine. 

But,  planet  of  glory  and  awe, 

It  was  not  thy  lustre  I  saw, 

For  my  soul  was  absorbed  in  the  night 

When  last  1  gazed  on  thy  light. 

I  thought  of  the  hand  I  had  held, 
Of  the  heart  by  that  soft  hand  revealed, 
Of  the  eye  fixed  with  mine  on  thy  beam, 
And  the  world  was  forgot  in  my  dream. 
13 


146  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Flame  on  then,  them  king  of  the  sky, 
For  thy  brightness  is  joy  to  my  eye  ; 
For  this  hour  thou  art  beaming  above 
The  home  of  my  wife  and  my  Jove. 
Literary  Gazette. 


STANZAS, 

BY    WILLIAM    ROSCOE,    ESQ. 

On  receiving.febm  Dr.  Rush,  (^Philadelphia,  apiece  of  the 
Tree,  under  which  William  Penn  made  his  Treaty  with 
the  Indians,  converted  to  the  purpose  of  an  inkstand. 

FROM  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  war-fiend  raised  his  hated  yell, 
And  'midst  the  storm  that  realms  deplore, 

Perm's  honoured  tree  of  Concord  fell ; 
And  of  that  tree,  that  ne'er  again 

Shall  Spring's  reviving  influence  know, 
A  relic  o'er  the  Atlantic  main, 

Was  sent — the  gift  of  foe  to  foe! 
But  though  no  more  its  ample  shade, 

Wave  green  beneath  Columbia's  sky, 
Though  every  branch  be  now  decayed, 

And  all  its  "scattered  leaves  be  dry, 
Yet  'midst  the  relic's  sainted  space, 

A  health-restoring  blood  shall  spring, 
In  which  the  angel-form  of  Peace 

May  stoop  to  dip  her  dove-like  wing. 
So  once  the  staff  the  prophet  bore, 

By  wondering  eyes  again  was  seen 
To  swell  with  life  through  every  pore, 

And  bud  afresh  with  foliage  green. 
The  withered  branch  again  shall  grow, 

'Till  o'er  the  earth  its  shade  extend — 
And  this — the  gift  of  foe  to  foe — 

Becomes  the  gift  of  friend  to  friend. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  147 


LINES  ON  A  SKULL. 

BEHOLD  this  ruin  ! — 'Twas  a  skull 

Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full  ! 

This  narrow  cell  was  life's  retreat ; 

This  space  was  thought's  mysterious  seat ; — 

What  beauteous  pictures  filled  this  spot! 

What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot ! 

Nor  love,  nor  joy,  nor  hope,  nor  fear, 

Has  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy, 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye; 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void, 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dew  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  for  ever  bright, 

When  stars  and  suns  have  lost  their  light. 

Here,  in  this  silent  cavern,  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue  ; 

If  falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  where  it  could  not  praise,  was  chained,- 

If  bold  in  virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 

That  tuneful  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  death  unveils  eternity. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 
Or  with  its  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock,  or  wear  the  gem, 
Can  nothing  now  avail  to  them  ; 
But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shallclaim 
Than  all  that  waits  on  wealth  or  fame. 


148  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Avails  it,  whether  bare  or  shod, 
These  feet  the  path  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  joy  they  fled, 
To  soothe  affliction's  humble  bed  ; 
If  grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue's  lap  returned — 
These  feet  with  angel's  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 
Manchester  Exchange  Herald. 


THE  GROUND  SWELL* 

WRITTEN    ON   THE    BREAKWATER,    PLYMOUTH    SOUND. 

THE  Sun  is  high,  the  Atlantic  is  unfanned 
Even  by  the  breathing  of  the  gentle  West ; 
And  yet  the  broad  blue  flood  is  not  at  rest ! 
Amid  the  holy  calm  on  sea  and  land, 
There  is  a  murmuring  on  the  distant  strand  ; 
And  silently,  though  ocean  heaves  its  breast, 
The  shoreward  swellings  wear  a  feathery  crest, 
And  meet  the  opposing  rocks  in  conflict  grand. 
These,  ships  that  dare  the  eternal  winds  and  seas, 
In  the  commotion,  roll  without  a  breeze, 
And  as  their  sides  the  huge  upswellings  lave, 
His  flagging  sails  the  listless  seaman  sees, 
And  wishes  rather  for  the  winds  to  rave, 
And,  like  an  arrow,  dart  him  o'er  the  wave. 
Literary  Gazette.  N.  T.  C. 

*  The  Ground  Swell  is  principally  occasioned  by  storms  in 
the  Atlantic,  which  agitate  the  sea  many  days  after  the  tern- 
pests  have  ceased.  The  ocean  heaves,  as  it  were,  in  masses, 
but  its  surface  is  quite  smooth,  i.  e.  unbroken  into  waves,  and 
without  foam,  except -where  it  comes  in  contact  with  the  coast. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  149 


MIRKWOOD  MERE. 

BY    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 

LATE,  when  the  Autumn  evening  fell, 
On  Mirkwood-Mere's  romantic  dell ; 
The  lake  returned,  in  chastened  gleam, 
The  purple  cloud,  the  golden  beam  ; 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  pool, 
Headland  and  bank  lay  fair  and  cool ; 
The  weather-tented  rock  and  tower, 
Each  drooping  tree,  each  fairy  flower  ; 
So  true,  so  soft,  the  mirror  gave, 
As  if  they  lay  beneath  the  wave, 
Secure  from  trouble,  toil  and  care, — 
A  world  than  earthly  world  more  fair. 

But  distant  winds  began  to  wake, 

And  roused  the  Genius  of  the  Lake  ! 

He  heard  the  groaning  of  the  oak, 

And  donned  at  once  his  sable  cloak  ; 

As  warrior  at  the  battle  cry, 

Invests  him  with  his  panoply  ; 

Then,  as  the  whirlwind  nearer  pressed, 

Began  to  shake  his  foamy  crest 

O'er  furrowed  brow  and  blackened  cheek, 

And  bade  his  surge  in  thunder  speak. 

In  wild  and  broken  eddies  whirled, 

Flitted  that  fond  ideal  world  ; 

And  to  the  shore  in  tumult  tost, 

The  realms  of  fairy  bliss  were  lost. 

Yet,  with  a  stern  delight  and  strange, 

I  saw  the  spirit-stirring  change  ! 

As  warred  the  wind  with  wave  and  wood, 

Upon  the  ruined  tower  I  stood, 

And  felt  my  heart  more  strongly  bound, 

Responsive  to  the  lofty  sound  ; 

While  joying  in  the  mighty  roar, 

I  mourned  that  tranquil  scene  no  more. 


150  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

So,  on  the  idle  dreams  of  youth 
Breaks  the  loud  trumpet-call  of  Truth, 
Bids  each  fair  vision  pass  away, 
Like  landscape  on  the  lake  that  lay  ; 
As  fair,  as  flitting,  and  as  frail, 
As  that,  which  fled  the  Autumn  gale  ; 
For  ever  dead  to  Fancy's  eye, 
Be  each  fair  form  that  glided  by  ; 
While  dreams  of  love,  and  lady's  charms, 
Give  place  to  honour  and  to  arms ! 
Waverley. 


A  PRAYER. 

BY    WILLIAM    BECKFORD,    ESQ. 

LIKE  the  low  murmur  of  the  secret  stream, 

Which,  through  dark  alders,  winds  its  shaded  way, 

My  suppliant  voice  is  heard  : — Ah  !  do  not  deem 
That  on  vain  toys  I  throw  rny  hours  away. 

In  the  recesses  of  the  forest  vale, — 

On  the  wild  mountain, — on  the  verdant  sod, 

Where  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  morn  prevail, — 
I  wander  lonely,  communing  with  God. 

When  the  faint  sickness  of  a  wounded  heart, 
Creeps  in  cold  shudderings  through  my  sinking  frame, 

I  turn  to  thee, — that  holy  peace  impart 

Which  soothes  the  invokers  of  thy  awful  name. 

O  all-pervading  Spirit !— Sacred  beam  ! 

Parent  of  Hie  and  light  ! — Kternal  Power! 
Grant  me,  through  obvious  clouds,  one  transient  gleam 

Of  thy  bright  essence  in  my  dying  hour  ! 
Britton's  Fonthill  Abbey. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  151 

THE  CONTRAST, 

WRITTEN    UNDER    WINDSOR    TERRACE,    17TH  FEB.  1820. 
BY   HORACE    SMITH,   ESQ,. 

1  SAW  him  last  on  this  Terrace  proud, 

Walking  in  health  and  gladness; 
Begirt  with  his  Court,  and  in  all  the  crowd, 

Not  a  single  look  of  sadness. 

Bright  was  the  sun,  and  the  leaves  were  green, — 

Blithely  the  birds  were  singing  ; — 
The  cymbal  replied  to  the  tambourine, 

And  the  bells  were  merrily  ringing. 

I  have  stood  with  the  crowd  beside  his  bier, 

When  not  a  word  was  spoken, 
But  every  eye  was  dim  with  a  tear, 

And  the  silence  by  sobs  was  broken. 

I  have  heard  the  earth  on  his  coffin  pour, 

To  the  muffled  drum's  deep  rolling  ; 
While  the  minute  gun,  with  its  solemn  roar, 

Drowned  the  death-bell's  tolling. 

The  time  since  he  walked  in  his  glory  thus, 

To  the  grave  till  I  saw  him  carried, 
Was  an  age  of  the  mightiest  change  to  ws, 

But  to  him  a  night  unvaried. 

We  had  fought  the  fight ;  from  his  lofty  throne 

The  foe  of  our  land  we  had  tumbled, 
And  it  gladdened  each  eye — save  his  alone 

For  whom  that  foe  we  humbled. 


152  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM. 

A  daughter  beloved — a  Queen — a  son — 
And  a  son's  sole  child  had  perished  ; — 

And  sad  was  each  heart,  save  the  only  one 
By  which  they  were  fondest  cherished. 

For  his  eyes  were  sealed,  and  his  mind  was  dark, 

And  he  sat  in  his  age's  lateness, 
Like  a  vision  throned, — as  a  solemn  mark 

Of  the  frailty  of  human  greatness. 

His  silver  beard,  o'er  a  bosom  spread, 

Unvexed  by  life's  commotion, 
Like  a  yearly -lengthening  snow-drift,  shed 

On  the  calm  of  a  frozen  ocean. 

Still  o'er  him  oblivion's  waters  lay, 

Though  the  stream  of  time  kept  flowing  ; 

When  they  spoke  of  our  King  'twas  but  to  say, 
That  the  old  man's  strength  was  going. 

He  is  gone  at  length.  He  is  laid  in  dust — 
Death's  hand  his  slumbers  breaking, 

For  the  coffined  sleep  of  the  good  and  just, 
Is  a  sure  and  blissful  waking. 

His  people's  heart  is  his  funeral  urn  ; 

And  should  a  sculptured  stone  be  denied  him, 
There  will  his  name  be  found,  when  in  turn 

We  lay  our  heads  beside  him. 
London  Magazine. 


FRAGMENT. 

SEE  April  comes!  a  primrose  coronal, 
Circling  her  sunny  temples,  and  her  vest, 
Pranked  with  the  hare-bell  arid  the  violet, 
Like  a  young  widow,  beautiful  in  tears, 
She  ushers  in  the  Spring  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  153 

BALLAD. 

BY    THOMAS    PRINGLE. 

OUR  native  land — our  native  vale, — 

A  long — a  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviot-dale 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  blue! 

Farewell,  ye  hills  of  glorious  deeds, 

And  streams  renowned  in  song  ! 
Farewell  ye  blithesome  braes  and  meads, 

Our  hearts  have  loved  so  long  ! 

Farewell  ye  broomy  elfin  knowes, 

Where  thyme  and  harebells  grow  ! 
Farewell  ye  hoary  haunted  howes, 

O'erhung  with  birk  and  sloe ! 

The  battle  rnound — the  Border  tower, 

That  Scotia's  annals  tell ; 
The  martyr's  grave — the  lover's  bower, 

To  each — to  all — farewell ! 

Home  of  our  hearts  !     Our  fathers'  home — 

Land  of  the  brave  and  free ! — 
The  sail  is  flapping  on  the  foam, 

That  bears  us  far  from  thee. 

We  seek  a  wild  romantic  shore, 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  main  ; 
We  leave  thee  to  return  no  more, 

Or  view  thy  cliffs  again. 

But  may  dishonour  blight  our  fame, 

And  quench  our  household  fires, 
When  we,  or  ours,  forget  thy  name, 

Green  island  of  our  sires. 


154  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Our  native  vale — our  native  vale — 

A  long, — a  last  adieu  ! — 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviot-dale, 

And  Scotland's  mountains  blue  ! 
The  Inverness  Courier. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THF  HEBE  OF  CANOVA. 

DIVINITY  in  stone  !     Yet  glowing 

Supremely  warm,  and  rich,  and  fair; 
Around  a  sense  of  sweetness  throwing, 

As  if  her  roses  wantoned  there  ! 
Upon  that  brow,  so  pure  and  soft, 

Immortal  Love  hath  set  his  seal ; 
And  left,  in  kinder  mood  than  oft, 

A  sign  we  cannot  see — but  feel ! 

Those  eyes — those  full  and  fixed  eyes, 

They  cannot  beam,  nor  glow  with  fire  ; 
Or  herald  as  the  wishes  rise, 

The  thoughts  the  spirit  would  respire  ; 
But,  passionless  themselves,  they  wake 

In  us  that  feeling's  tender  strife, 
Of  which  the  sister  Graces  make 

A  busy,  brilliant,  span  of  life  ! 

Then  oh  !  those  lips  ! — Those  eloquent  lips! 

So  full  of  love,  and  peace,  and  all, 
That  suffered  such  a  dark  eclipse 

When  erring  woman  doomed  our  fall ! 
Yet  knowing  this,  whoe'er  could  look 

Upon  that  marble,  nor  prefer, 
That  man  the  fatal  apple  took, 

And  left  his  heaven  to  live  with  her. 
New  European  Magazine.  B.  B.  W. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  155 

THE  PAST. 

BY    JOHN    WILSON,    ESQ. 

How  wild  and  dim  this  life  appears  ! 
One  long,  deep,  heavy  sigh, 
When  o'er  our  eyes,  half  closed  in  tears, 
The  images  of  former  years 
Are  faintly  glimmering  by  ! 
And  still  forgotten  while  they  go, 
As  on  the  sea-beach,  wave  011  wave, 
Dissolves  at  once  in  snow. 
The  arnber  clouds  one  moment  lie, 
Then  like  a  dream  are  gone! — 
Though  beautiful  the  moonbeams  play 
On  the  lake's  bosom,  bright  as  they, 
And  the  soul  intensely  loves  their  stay, 
Soon  as  the  radiance  melts  away, 
We  scarce  believe  it  shone  ! 
Heaven-airs  amid  the  harp-strings  dwell ; 
And  we  wish  they  ne'er  may  fade — 
They  cease, — and  the  soul  is  a  silent  cell, 
Where  music  never  played  ! 

Dream  follows  dream  through  the  long  night  hours, 
Each  lovelier  than  the  last ; — 
But  ere  the  breath  of  morning  flowers, 
That  gorgeous  world  flies  past ; 
And  many  a  sweet  angelic  cheek, 
Whose  smiles  of  love  and  kindness  speak, 
Glides  by  us  on  this  earth  ; 
While  in  a  day  we  cannot  tell 
Where  shone  the  face  we  loved  so  well, 
In  sadness,  or  in  mind  ! 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


156  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


v I       STANZAS. 

IN  many  a  strain  of  grief  and  joy, 

My  youthful  spirit  sang  to  thee  ; 
But  I  am  now  no  more  a  boy, 

And  there's  a  gulph  'twixt  thee  and  me. 
Time  on  my  brow  has  set  his  seal — 

I  start  to  find  myself  a  man, 
And  know  that  I  no  more  shall  feel 

As  only  boyhood's  spirit  can. 
And  now  I  bid  a  long  adieu, 

To  thoughts  that  held  my  heart  in  thrall, 
To  cherished  dreams  of  brightest  hue, 

And  thou — the  brightest  dream  of  all ! 
My  footsteps  rove  not  where  they  roved, 

My  home  is  changed,  and  one  by  one, 
The  'old  familiar'  forms  I  loved, 

Are  faded  from  my  path — and  gone. 
I  launch  into  life's  stormy  main, 

And  'tis  with  tears — but  not  of  sorrow  ; 
That  pouring  thus  my  parting  strain, 

I  bid  thee,  as  a  Bride,  good-morrow. 
Full  well  thou  know'st  I  envy  not, 

The  heart  it  is  thy  choice  to  share  ; 
My  soul  dwells  on  thee  as  a  thought, 

With  which  no  earthly  wishes  are. 
I  love  thee  as  I  love  the  star, 

The  gentle  star  that  shines  at  even  ; 
That  melts  into  my  heart  from  far, 

And  leads  my  wandering  thoughts  to  heaven. 
'Twould  break  my  soul's  divinest  dream, 

With  meaner  love  to  mingle  thee  ; 
'Twould  dim  the  most  unearthly  beam, 

Thy  form  sheds  o'er  my  Memory. 
It  is  my  joy,  it  is  my  pride, 

To  picture  thee  in  bliss  divine, 
A  happy,  and  an  honoured  bride, — . 

Blest  by  a  fonder  love  than  mine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  157 

Be  thou  to  one  a  holy  spell, 

A  bliss  by  day — a  dream  by  night — 
A  thought  on  which  his  soul  may  dwell — 

A  cheering  and  a  guiding  light. 
This  be  thy  heart; — but,  while  no  other 

Disturbs  his  image  at  its  core, 
Still  think  of  me  as  of  a  brother — 

I'd  not  be  loved  or  love  thee  more. 
For  thee  each  feeling  of  my  breast, 

So  holy — so  serene  shall  be, 
That  when  thy  heart  to  his  is  prest, 

'Twill  be  no  crime  to  think  of  me. 
I  shall  not  wander  forth  at  night, 

To  breathe  thy  name — as  lovers  would  ; 
Thy  form  in  visions  of  delight, 

Not  oft  shall  break  my  solitude  ; 
But  when  my  bosom-friends  are  near, 

And  happy  faces  round  me  press; 
The  goblet  to  my  lips  I'll  rear, 

And  drain  it  to  thy   happiness. 
And  when  at  morn  or  midnight  hour, 

I  commune  with  my  God  alone, 
Before  the  throne  of  peace  and  power, 

I'll  blend  thy  welfare  with  mine  own. 
And  if  with  pure  and  fervent  sighs, 

I  bend  before  some  loved-one's  shrine, — 
When  gazing  on  her  gentle  eyes, 

I  shall  not  blush  to  think  of  thine, — 
Then,  when  thou  meet'st  thy  love's  caress, 

And  when  thy  children  climb  thy  knee, 
In  thy  calm  hour  of  happiness, 

Then,  sometimes, — sometimes  think  of  me. 
In  pain  or  health — in  grief  or  mirth, 

Oh  !  may  it  to  my  prayer  be  given, 
That  we  may  sometimes  meet  on  earth, 

/\iid  meet,  to  part  no  more,  in  Heaven  ! 
Etonian. 


14 


158  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM, 


AN  ARABIAN  SONG. 


BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

I  LOVE  thee,  Ibla  ! — thou  art  bright 
As  the  white  snow  on  the  hills  afar; 

Thy  face  is  sweet  as  the  moon  by  night, 

And  thine  eye  like  the  clear  and  rolling  star. 

But  the  snow  is  poor,  and  withers  soon, 
While  thou  art  firm  and  rich — in  hope  ; 

And  never  (like  thine)  from  the  face  of  the  moon 
Flamed  the  dark  eye  of  the  Antelope. 

Fine  is  thy  shape  as  the  Erak's  bough, 

And  thy  bosom  a  heaven — or,  haplier,  meant 

(If  man  may  guess,  who  crawls  below,) 
By  Heaven  for  Earth's  enchantment. 

But  the  bough  of  the  Erak  in  winter  dies, 
And  the  Heaven  hath  clouds  that  dim  its  blue; 

Thy  shape  is  as  fine  when  the  summer  flies, 
And  thy  bosom  is  warm  and  cloudless  too. 

Thy  hair  is  black  as  the  starless  sky, 

And  clasps  thy  neck  as  it  loved  its  home  ; 

Yet  it  moves  at  the  sound  of  thy  faintest  sigh, 
Like  the  snake  that  lies  on  the  white  sea-foam. 

Farewell !  Farewell ! — Yet  of  thee,  sweet  maid, 
I'll  sing — in  the  wild  woods  far  away ; 

And  I'll  bear  thy  name  on  my  shining  blade, — 
Flower  of  my  own  Arabia  ! 

And  when  I  return,  with  a  Chieftain's  name, 
And  many  a  plundered  gem  for  thee, 

I'll  ask  thee,  then  to  share  my  fame 

For  all  love's  sweet  eternity. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  159 

A  PORTRAIT, 

FROM     REAL     LIFE. 

AT  length  her  griefs  have  drawn  the  lines  of  care 

Across  her  brow,  and  sketched  her  story  there  ; 

And  years  of  keenest  suffering  dried  the  stream 

That  lent  her  youthful  eye  its  liquid  beam. 

A  mild  composure  to  its  glance  succeeds; 

Her  gayest  look  still  speaks  of  widow's  weeds  \ 

Her  smile  is  one  of  patience,  not  of  ease, 

An  effort  made  to  cover,  not  to  please  ; 

While  grief,  with  thorny  pencil,  day  by  day, 

In  silence,  delves  the  flagging  cheek  away, — 

Chases  the  bloom  that  peaceful  thoughts  bestow, 

To  spread  instead  the  sallow  tints  of  wo  ; 

And  where  the  magic  dimple  used  to  start 

In  early  wrinkles,  writes — a  broken  heart  I 

Perchance  the  casual  undiscerning  gaze 
That  never  read  a  history  in  a  face, 
In  the  gay  circle  might  suppose  her  gay, 
Nor  mark  the  nascent  traces  of  decay  ; 
But  oh,  to  those  whose  nicer  feelings  take 
The  fine  impression  that  a  look  can  make, — 
Who,  skilled  by  sorrows  of  their  own,  descry 
The  prisoned  secret  speaking  in  the  eye, — 
(As  weeping  captives  at  their  windows  pine) 
To  them  there  is  a  voice  in  every  line ! 
The  brow,  by  effort  raised,  to  seem  serene ; 
Round  every  smile  the  circling  wrinkle  seen  ; 
The  sullen  cloud  that  comes  to  pass  away, 
Chased  by  a  cheerless  struggle  to  be  gay ; 
At  certain  words  or  names  the  quick  short  sigh, 
And  when  neglected  long  the  absent  eye, 
That  seems  on  images  long  past  to  fall, 
Unconscious  of  aught  else — will  tell  them  all ! 

But  few  among  the  selfish, — busy, — gay, — 
Permit  a  quiet  face  to  stop  their  way  ; 


160  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A  face  that  holds  no  lure, — no  tribute  seeks, — 
Demands  no  homage, — nothing  strange  bespeaks ; — 
That  looks  as  hundreds  looked  that  they  have  known, 
Just  marked  enough  to  call  some  name  its  own. 
O,  few  in  folly's  course  can  check  their  speed, 
The  simple  lines  of  character  to  read  ! 
Or  if  they  pause,  the  rude  unfeeling  eye, 
The  cold  enquiry — contumelious  sigh, 
And  all  the  world's. gross  pity  can  impart, 
Are  caustic  to  the  festers  of  the  heart. 
Leeds  Intelligencer. 


EL  HYPONDRIACO. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  thou  sullen  Sun, 
An  emblem  of  my  weary  mind, 

Obscure  ere  half  its  course  be  done, 

While  Night,  long  Night,  remains  behind. 

All  that  I  loved,  my  pencil,  pen, 

That  stole  the  time  on  downy  wings, 

When  shall  I  feel  your  charm  again  ? 
Farewell !  ye  past,  ye  pleasant  things. 

Where  is  thy  balm  of  care,  O  Sleep, 
That  once  upon  my  eyelids  lay  ? 

Now,  if  a  slumber  on  me  creep, 
The  night  is  wilder  than  the  day. 

I  plunge  in  ocean, — shoot  through  air, — 
Parch  in  the  desert ! — fly  the  den, — 

See  horrors, — wake  in  struggling  prayer; — 

And  Midnight  is  twice  Midnight  then. 
New  Times. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  161 


WRITTEN  AT  SPITHEAD. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLY. 

HARK  to  the  knell ! 
It  comes  in  the  swell 

Of  the  stormy  ocean  wave. 
'Tis  no  earthly  sound, 
But  a  toll  profound 

From  the  Mariner's  deep  sea  grave. 

When  the  billows  dash, 
And  the  signals  flash, 

And  the  thunder  is  on  the  gale  ; 
And  the  Ocean  is  white 
In  its  own  wild  light, 

Deadly,  and  dismal,  and  pale  ; 

When  the  lightning's  blaze 
Smites  the  seaman's  gaze, 

And  the  sea  rolls  in  fire  and  in  foam  ; 
And  the  surges'  roar 
Shakes  the  rocky  shore, 

We  hear  the  sea-knell  come. 

There  'neath  the  billow, 
The  sand  their  pillow, 

Ten  thousand  men  lie  low ; 
And  still  their  dirge 
Is  sung  by  the  surge, 

When  the  stormy  night-winds  blow. 

Sleep,  warriors !  sleep 
On  your  pillow  deep 

In  peace  !  for  no  mortal  care — 
No  art  can  deceive, — 
No  anguish  can  heave 

The  heart  that  once  slumbers  there. 
Times. 

14* 


162  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

A  NIGHT  STORM, 

AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS    OF    SNOWDON. 

'Tis  eve  !     The  sun's  last  rays  arc  glimmering  still 
On  Snowdon's  crested  summit,  and  around 
His  granite  rocks  flows  the  deep  bosomed  rill 
In  solitude  and  loveliness.     Its  sound, 
As  with  an  angel  voice,  of  peace  profound 
Whispers  to  Heaven  ;  and  see — the  sultry  fires 
Of  day  more  faintly  yon  deep  crags  surround  ; 
Slowly  even  now  each  western  beam  retires, — 
Fades,-lightens  o'er  the  wave,-and  with  a  smile  expires. 

Night,  utter  night  succeeds. — Above — below 
All  deepens  slowly  in  one  blackening  gloom  ; 
Dark  are  the  Heavens,  as  is  the  front  of  wo, — 
Dark  as  the  mountain  prospects, — as  the  tomb. 
Even  as  I  slow  descend,  a  fearful  doom 
Weighs  heavy  on  my  heart,  the  bird  of  night 
Screams  from  her  straw-built  nest  as  from  the  womb 
Of  infant  death,  and  wheels  her  drowsy  flight, 
Amid  the  pine-clad  rocks,  with  wonder  and  affright. 

The  note  of  wo  is  hushed ;  peace  reigns  around 
In  utter  solitude  ;  the  night  breeze  dies 
Faint  on  the  mountain  ash-leaves  that  surround 
Snowdon's  dark  peaks. — But  hark  !  again  the  cries 
Of  the  scared  owl,  loud  hymning  to  the  skies 
Her  tale  of  desolation  !  Fearfully 
Night  lengthens  out  the  note  ; — the  echo  flies 
From  rock  to  rock;  now  whispering  shrilly  by — 
Now  in  the  distance  softened,  lingering  mournfully. 

Heaven  smiles  on  earth  again — the  glimmering  star 
Pours  in  mild  lustre  down  his  full-orbed  light ; 
And  see,  his  mistress  in  her  burnished  car 
.    Beams  on  the  view  ! — At  the  refulgent  sight 
The  clouds  sail  by  in  homage,  and  the  night 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  163 

Welcomes  her  as  a  friend  ; — the  heavenly  train 
Of  Satellites  attend  her  in  her  flight 
From  pole  to  pole  ;  while  a  full  chorused  strain 
Of  heaven's  own  music  swells  and  dies  in  peace  again. 

Brightly  she  moves  on  in  her  loveliness  ! 
The  fair-haired  regent  of  the  sky  ! — Her  smiles 
Soothe  the  stern  horrors  of  the  scene,  and  bless 
Nature's  calm  slumber  ;  o'er  yon  splintered  piles 
Of  beetling  crags,  how  sweetly  she  beguiles 
Gloorn  of  its  frown  ;  and,  see!  the  glittering  rill 
Heaves  conscious  of  her  presence,  and  reviles, 
With  murmuring  voice,  yon  proudly  frowning  hill, 
That  scorns  meek  Dian's  gaze, and  mocks  her  gentle  will. 

A  sound  rolls  by  of  horror  ! — On  the  wind 
Rides  the  dark  bosomed  Daemon  of  the  storm  ; 
Whirlwinds,  with  meteor  splendour,  crowd  behind, 
And  Heaven  peals  out  the  trumpet  of  alarm. 
Hark!  from  yon  murky  cloud  with  lightning  warm, 
A  voice  of  death  proceeds  ! — The  majesty 
Of  Heaven  displays  around  its  harrowing  form  ! — 
Hark!  God  in  all  his  power  is  riding  by  T  [sky  ? 

Heard  ye  his  chariot-wheels  sweep  echoing  through  the 

He  speaks  !  scared  nature  trembles  at  the  sound  ; 
Earth,  air,  sky,  ocean,  dictate  a  reply; 
The  mountain-rock  tolls  out  the  voice  profound, 
And  woodland  echo  multiplies  the  cry: — 
'  Clashed  with  the  night  owl's  scream,  along  the  sky 
Rolls  the  live  thunder;  through  the  forest  caves, 
Dim  flashes  the  blue  lightning  ; — eddying  by 
Leaps  the  swoll'n  torrent,  o'er  the  cataract  raves 
With  brutal  force,  and  headlong  flings  its  billowy  waves. 

The  night-breeze  sails  athwart  the  sky — the  thunder 
Has  waked  him  from  his  sleep — the  spirit  hears 
The  da3tnon's  call,  and  rudely  rends  asunder 
The  bonds  of  rest :  upon  the  cloud  he  rears 


164  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

His  deathless  might,  and  wrathfully  careers 
Round  the  black  rocks, — dashes  in  vengeance  down 
Their  craggy  summits, — damps  the  toil  of  years 
With  one  rude  whirlwind — and,  more  ruthless  grown, 
Heaves  up  the  ocean  waves  his  giant  strength  to  crown. 

And  now  he  sinks  in  softness,  and  anon 
Rolls  on  the  ear  with  desolating  peal ; — 
Again  the  voice  is  silent. — It  is  gone, 
The  darksome  horrors  of  the  night  to  seal? 
Forth  peeps  the  moon  ;  her  watery  beams  reveal 
The  death  that  has  been  busy  here  ; — again 
The  clouds  sail  round,  as  anxious  to  conceal 
The  sight"of  desolation,  but  in  vain — 
She  walks  in  beauty  forth,  with  all  her  starry  train. 
Chester  Chronicle.  W.  F.  D. 


SONNET, 

COMPOSED    ON    THE    SEA    COAST. 
BY    S.   T.    COLERIDGE,    ES&. 

O  !  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 
Or  bid  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  strange  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 
Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or,  with  head  bowed  low, 
And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 
'Twixt  crimson  banks,  and  then  a  traveller  go 
From  mount  to  mount  o'er  CLOUD  LAWD,-gorgeous  land  ! 
Or  listening  to  the  tide  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  stand, 
By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssee 
Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea ! 
JBlackwood's  Magazine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


A  COUNTRY  WEDDING. 

OH  !  there  is  music  in  the  bells, 

From  yonder  noisy  steeple  pealing, 

That  sweetly  o'er  the  spirit  swells, 

And  wakes  the  deepest  chords  of  feeling  ! 

It  is  not  that  this  twilight  hour 

Blends  softly  with  their  melting  one  ; 

Theirs  is  a  deeper,  holier  power, 
Whose  echo's  in  the  heart  alone. 

There's  music  in  that  merry  voice — 
The  voice  of  peasants,  wild  and  high, 

That  bids  the  listener's  soul  rejoice, 
And  share  in  all  their  revelry. 

It  is  not  that  those  sounds  proclaim 

Some  boastful  conqueror's  vain  parade  ; 

They  swell  not  now  the  pomp  of  fame, 
They  hail  no  gorgeous  cavalcade. 

But  oh  !  they  bear  a  mightier  charm 
Than  shouts  of  triumph  can  express! 

They  spring  from  hearts  with  feeling  warm, 
Each  voice  a  voice  of  happiness. 

There's  an  o'erflowing  tide  of  gladness, 
To  night,  in  all  we  hear  or  see  ; 

A  moment's  passing  dream  of  madness — 
The  heart's  delirious  jubilee. 

Who  recks  amid  a  life  like  this, 
Of  future  grief,  or  toil,  or  pain  ? 

To-morrow  shall  dissolve  the  bliss, 
And  care  and  reason  wake  again. 


1G5 


166  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  may  it  be  that  yonder  chime, 

Which  spoke  to-day  of  hearts  delighted, 

May  sadly  tell,  in  after  time, 

That  death  those  hearts  has  disunited  ? 

It  may  be — but  away,  away  ! 

Forebodings  dark,  and  dreams  of  sorrow 
Let  mirth  and  music  reign  to-day, 

And  reason's  voice  be  heard  to-morrow.. 

I  would  not,  with  most  sage  advice, 
Dispel  this  momentary  fever; 

For,  oh  !  the  world  were  paradise, 

Could  such  delirium  last  for  ever. 
Etonian. 


SONNET, 

TO     AILSA     ROCK. 
BY    JOHN   KEATS. 

HEARKEN,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid! 

Give  answer  from  thy  voice,  the  sea  fowls'  screams;. 

When  were  thy  thunders  mantled  in  huge  streams? 

When  from  the  sun  was  thy  broad  forehead  hid  ? 

How  long  is't  since  the  mighty  Power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom  dreams? — 

Sleep  on  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sun-beams, — 

Or  when  gray  clouds  are  thy  cold  coverlid !. 

Thou  answerest  not,  for  thou  art  dead  asleep ; 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dread  eternities; 

The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep, — 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle  skies  ; — 

Drowned  wast  thou  till  an  earthquake  made  thee  steep,- 

Another  cannot  bow  thy  giant  size. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  167 


TO  A  GIRL  THIRTEEN  YEARS  OF  AGE, 

THY  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays, 

So  beautiful  approve  thee, 
So  winning,  light,  are  all  thy  ways, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee  : 
Thy  balmy  breath  upon  my  brow 

Is  like  the  summer  air, 
As  o'er  my  cheek  thou  leanest  now 

To  plant  a  soft  kiss  there. 

Thy  steps  are  dancing  toward  the  bound 

Between  the  child  and  woman  ; 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  more  profound, 

And  other  years  are  coming  ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  more  deeply  fair, 

More  precious  to  the  heart ; 
But  never  can'st  thou  be  again, 

That  lovely  thing  thou  art ! 

And  youth  shall  pass,  with  all  the  brood 

Of  fancy-fed  affection  ; 
And  care  shall  come  with  womanhood, 

And  'waken  cold  reflection  ; 
Thou'lt  learn  to  toil,  and  watch,  and  weep, 

O'er  pleasures  unreturning, 
Like  one  who  wakes  from  pleasant  sleep 

Unto  the  cares  of  morning. 

Nav,  say  not  so  !  nor  cloud  the  sun 

Of  joyous  expectation, 
Ordained  to  bless  the  little  one, 

The  freshling  of  creation  ! 
Nor  doubt  that  HE,  who  now  doth  feed 

Her  early  lamp  with  gladness, 
Will  be  her  present  help  in  need, 

Her  comforter  in  sadness. 


168  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Smile  on,  then,  little  winsome  thing, 

All  rich  in  nature's  measure ; 
Thou  hast  within  thy  heart  a  spring 

Of  self-renewing-  pleasure  ; 
Smile  on,  fair  child,  and  take  thy  fill 

Of  mirth,  till  time  shall  end  it; 
'Tis  Nature's  wise  and  gentle  will, 

And  who  shall  reprehend  it? 
Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine.  W. 


LOVE. 

BY    R.    SOUTHEY,    ESQ. 

THEY  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die  ;— 

With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  hut  vanity. 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell  ; — 

Earthly  these  passions  as  of  earth, 

They  perish  when  they  have  their  birth  ; 

But  love  is  indestructible, — 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth, — 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 

At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest ; 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 

And  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest ; 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 

But  the  harvest  time  of  Love  is  there. 

Oh  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 

The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  wo,  the  anxious  night, 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  1G9 

TO  A  SISTER. 

BY     W.     READ,     ESQ. 

THE  soft  gale  of  summer,  though  past, 
Will  breathe  of  the  rose  it  loved  last ; 
Thus  divided  by  land  and  by  sea, 
My  soul  whispers  fondly  of  thee. 

And  to  me  thou  art  now  as  a  star, 
In  the  blue  depths  of  heaven  afar; 
On  which,  from  the  gloom  of  my  lot, 
I  can  gaze  till  my  griefs  are  forgot. 

And  my  spirit  full  oft  when  it  turns 

From  the  cold  hearted  crowd  which  it  spurns, 

Confesses  with  pain,  yet  with  pride, 

It  hath  found  but  One  like  thee  beside. 

I  may  err — and  have  erred, — for  a  mind 
That  finds  not  repose — nor  can  find — 
All  helmless  and  havenless  tost, 
Like  a  wreck  on  the  ocean — is  lost. 

But  oh !  when  most  wild  or  most  weak, 
Let  me  think  of  the  tear  on  thy  cheek, — 
And,  as  one  from  a  serpent  would  start, 
•My  soul  and  her  madness  shall  part. 

I  once  sighed  for  the  wreath  that  is  wove 
Round  the  brow  of  the  blest  in  their  love  ; 
And  I  burned  for  the  raptures  that  steal 
Through  those  hearts  which  are  felt  for,  and  feel ; 

I  once  hoped  the  proud  laurel  should  bloom, 
Ever  green  on  my  temple,  or  tomb, — 
And  I  thought  round  this  rude  harp  of  mine, 
An  amaranth  leaf  might  entwine. 
15 


170  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Alas  !  they  were  dreams  that  pass  on. 
Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  moon,  and  are  gone! 
For  the  stone  that  may  tell  of  my  name, 
Shall  speak  not  of  fortune  or  fame. 

Yet,  dear  one,  though  hopeless  I  be, 

Divided  and  distant  from  Thee, 

My  lot  shall  not  make  me  repine, 

Whilst  thy  fondness  and  friendship  are  mine. 

Farewell !  with  thy  purity  blest, 
Be  still  my  own  star  in  the  west ! 
For  thy  beam  has  a  passionate  spell, 
Which  binds  me  to  earth — Fare-thee-well  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


TO  LOUISA. 

IF  memory  ever  should  whisper  the  name 
Of  one  who  hath  loved  thee  not  wisely,  but  well, 
And  dwelt  on  thy  charms  with  that  passionate  flame, 
Which  none  but  the  soul  of  a  poet  can  tell — 

Remember  his  heart  was  not  tempered  like  those 
Who  have  never  awoke  to  the  exquisite  touch, 
Which  passion  imparts  to  the  bosom  that  glows, 
Till  its  error  in  love  is  in  loving  too  much. 

Remember,  if  fondness  seduced  him  too  far, 

The  language  that  broke  from  thine  eloquent  eye  ; — 

For  who  could  be  blind  to  so  brilliant  a  star, 

If  it  beamed  but  on  him,  though  a  thousand  were  by? 

And  remember,  whilst  others  are  bound  by  its  spell, 
With  what  ills  and  what  anguish  his  spirit  must  cope, 
Who  breathes  thee  this  wild  and  eternal  farewell: — 
They  hope  while  they  love,  but  he  loves  without  hope 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  171 


TFIE   PAINTER. 

I  know  not  which  is  the  most  fatal  gift, 
Genius  or  Love,  for  both  alike  are  ruled 
By  stars  of  bright  aspect  and  evil  influence. 

HE  was  a  lonely  and  neglected  child  ; — 

His  cheek  was  colourless,  save  when  the  flush 

Of  strong  emotion  mastered  its  still  whiteness; 

His  dark  eyes  seemed  all  heaviness  and  gloom, — 

So  rarely  were  they  raised.     His  mother's  love 

Was  for  her  other  children  ; — they  were  fair, 

And  had  health's  morning  hues  and  sunny  looks. 

She  had  not  seen  him,  when  he  watched  the  sun 

Setting  at  eve,  like  an  idolater, 

Until  his  cheek  grew  crimson  in  the  light 

Of  the  so  radiant  heavens,  and  his  eyes 

Were  eloquently  beautiful,  all  filled 

With  earth's  most  glorious  feelings.     And  his  father, 

A  warrior  and  a  hunter,  one  whose  grasp 

Was  ever  on  the  bridle  or  the  brand, 

Had  no  pride  in  a  boy  whose  joy  it  was 

To  sit  for  hours  by  a  lone  fountain's  side, 

Listening  its  low  and  melancholy  song  ; 

Or  wander  through  the  gardens  silently, 

As  if  with  leaves  and  flowers  alone  he  held 

Aught  of  companionship.     In  his  first  years 

They  sent  him  to  a  convent,  for  they  said, 

Its  solitude  would  suit  with  Guino's  mood: 

And  there  he  dwelt,  treasuring  those  rich  thoughts 

That  are  the  food  on  which  young  genius  lives. 

He  rose  to  watch  the  sunlight  over  Rome 

Break  from  its  purple  shadows,  making  glad 

Even  that  desolate  city,  whose  dim  towers, 

Ruins  and  palaces,  seem  as  they  looked 

.Back  on  departed  time  ;  then  in  the  gloom 

Of  his  own  convent's  silent  burying  ground, 

Where,  o'er  the  quiet  dead,  the  cypress  mourned, 

He  passed  the  noon,  dreaming  those  dear  day-dreams, 


172  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Not  so  much  hopes  as  fancies ;  then  at  eve, 

When,  through  the  painted  windows,  the  red  sun 

Rainbowed  the  marble  floor  with  radiant  hues, 

Where  spread  the  ancient  church's  stately  arch, 

He  stayed,  till  the  deep  music  of  the  hymn, 

Chaunted  to  the  rich  organ's  rolling  notes, 

Bade  farewell  to  the  day  ;  then  to  his  cell 

lie  went,  and  through  the  casement's  iron  bars 

The  moon  looked  on  him,  beautiful  as  love, 

Lighting  his  slumber.     On  the  church's  wall 

There  hung  one  lovely  portrait,  and  for  hours 

Would  GUI  DO,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart, 

Kneel,  watching,  till  he  wept.     The  subject  was 

A  dying  Magdalene:   her  lung  black  hair 

Spread  round  her  like  a  shroud,  one  pale  thin  hand 

Pillowed  a  cheek  as  thin  and  pale,  and  scarce 

The  blue  light  of  the  eyes  was  visible, 

For  the  death  dampness  on  the  darkened  lids, 

As  one  more  effort  to  look  on  the  cross, 

Which  seemed  just  falling  from  the  fainting  arm, 

And  they  would  close  for  ever.     In  that  look, 

There  was  a  painter's  immortality  ! 

And  GUIDO  felt  it  deeply, — f<>r  a  gift 

Like  his  whose  work  that  was,  was  given  him, — 

A  gift  of  beauty  and  of  power, — and  soon 

He  lived  but  in  the  beautiful  creations 

His  pencil  called  to  life.     But  as  his  thoughts 

Took  wilier  range,  he  languished  to  behold 

More  of  a  world  he  thought  must  be  so  fair, 

So  filled  with  glorious  shapes.     It  chanced  that  he 

Whose  hand  had  traced  that  pale  sad  loveliness, 

Came  to  the  convent  ;  with  rejoicing  wonder, 

He  marked  how  like  an  unknown  mine,  whose  gold 

Gathers  in  silence,  had  young  GUIDO'S  mind 

Increased  in  lonely  richness  ;  every  day 

New  veins  of  splendid  thoughts  sprang  into  life. 

And  GUIDO  left  his  convent  cell  with  one, 

Who,  like  a  Genie,  bore  him  into  scenes 

Of  marvel  and  enchantment.     And  then  first 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  173 

Did  GUIDO  feel  how  very  precious  praise 

Is  to  young  genius, — like  sunlight  on  flowers, 

Ripening  them  into  fruit.     And  time  passed  on  ; — 

The  lonely  and  neglected  child  became 

One  whom  all  Rome  was  proud  of,  for  she  gave, 

At  once,  birth  to  his  fame,  and  to  himself. 

There  was  a  melancholy  beauty  shed 
Over  his  pictures,  as  the  element 
In  which  his  genius  shed  was  sorrow.     Love 
He  made  most  lovely,  but  yet  ever  sad  ; 
Passionate  partings,  such  as  wring  the  heart 
Till  tears  are  life-blood  :  meetings,  when  the  cheek 
Has  lost  all  hope  of  health  in  the  long  parting; 
The  grave,  with  one  mourning  in  solitude  ; 
These  made  his  fame,  and  were  his  excellence, — 
The  painter  of  deep  tears.     He  had  just  gained    ' 
The  summer  of  his  glory  and  of  his  days, 
When  his  remembering  art  was  called  to  give 
A  longer  memory  to  one  whose  life 
Was  but  a  thread.     Her  history  may  be  told 
In  one  word — love.     And  what  has  love  e'er  been 
But  misery  to  woman  ?     Still  she  wished — 
It  was  a  dying  fancy  which  betrayed 
How  much,  though  known  how  false  its  god  had  been, 
Her  soul  clung  to  its  old  idolatry, — 
To  send  her  pictured  semblance  to  the  false  one. 
She  hoped — how  love  will  hope  ! — it  might  recall 
The  young  and  lovely  girl  his  cruelty 
Had  worn  to  this  dim  shadow. — it  might  wake 
Those  thousand  fond  arid  kind  remembrances 
Which  he  hat!  utterly  abandoned,  while 
The  true  heart  he  had  treasured  next  his  own 
A  little  time,  had  never  ceased  to  beat 
For  only  him,  until  it  broke.     She  leant 
Beside  a  casement  when  first  GUIDO  looked 
Upon  her  wasted  beauty.     'Twas  the  brow, 
The  Grecian  outline  in  its  perfect  grace, 
That  he  had  learned  to  worship  in  his  youth 
By  gazing  on  that  Magdalene,  whose  face 
15* 


174  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Was  yet  a  treasure  in  his  memory ; 

But  sunken  were  the  temples, — they  had  lost 

Their  ivory  roundness,  yet  still  clear  as  day 

The  veins  shone  through  them,  shaded  by  the  braids, 

Just  simply  parted  back,  of  the  dark  hair, 

Where  grief's  white  traces  mocked  at  youth.     A  flush, 

As  shame,  deep  shame,  had  once  burnt  on  her  cheek, 

Then  lingered  there  for  ever,  looked  like  health 

Offering  hope,  vain  hope,  to  the  pale  lip, 

Like  the  rich  crimson  of  the  evening  sky, 

Brightest  when  night,  is  coming.     GUIDO  took 

Just  one  slight  sketch  ;  next  morning  she  was  dead  ! 

Yet  still  he  painted  on,  until  his  heart 

Grew  to  the  picture  : — it  became  his  world, — 

He  lived  but  in  its  beauty,  made  his  heart 

Sacred  to  it  alone.     No  more  he  gave 

To  the  glad  canvass  green  and  summer  dreams 

Of  the  Italian  valleys  ;  traced  no  more 

The  dark  eyes  of  its  lovely  daughters,  looked 

And  caught  the  spirit  of  fine  poetry 

From  glorious  statues: — these  were  passed  away. 

Shade  after  shade,  line  alter  line,  each  day 

Gave  life  to  the  sweet  likeness.     Guino  dwelt 

In  intense  worship  on  his  own  creation, 

Till  his  cheek  caught  the  hectic  tinge  he  drew, 

And  his  thin  hand  grew  tremulous.     One  night — 

Tiie  portrait  was  just  finished,  save  a  touch, 

A  touch  to  give  the  dark  light  of  the  eyes — 

He  painted  till  the  lamps  grew  dim,  his  hand 

Scarce  conscious  what  it  wrought;  at  length  his  lids 

Closed  in  heavy  slumber,  and  he  dreamt 

That  a  fair  creature  came  and  kissed  his  brow, 

And  bade  him  follow  her  :  he  knew  the  look, 

And  rose.     Awakening,  he  found  himself 

Kneeling  before  the  portrait ! — 'twas  so  fair, 

He  deemed  it  lived,  and  pressed  his  burning  lips 

To  the  sweet  mouth  ;.  his  soul  passed  in  that  kiss, — 

Young  GUIDO  died  beside  his  masterpiece  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  175 


TEN   YEARS  AGO. 

TEN  years  ago — ten  years  ago — 

Life  was  to  us  a  fairy  scene ; 
And  the  keen  blasts  of  worldly  woe 

Had  sered  not  then  its  pathway  green  ; 
Youth  and  its  thousand  dreams  were  ours, — 

Feelings  we  ne'er  can  know  again, — 
Unwithered  hopes — un wasted  powers, 

And  frames  unworn  by  mortal  pain  ; — 
Such  was  the  bright  and  genial  flow 
Of  life  with  us — ten  years  ago  ! 

Time  has  not  blanched  a  single  hair, 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  now  ; 
Nor  hath  the  cankering  touch  of  Care 

Left  even  one  furrow  on  thy  brow  ; 
Thine  eyes  are  blue  as  when  we  met, 

In  love's  deep  truth  in  earlier  years  ; 
Thy  cheek  of  rose  is  blooming  yet, 

Though  somewhat  stained  by  secret  tears; — 
But  where,  oh  where's  the  spirit's  glow 
That  shone  through  all — ten  years  ago? 

I  too  am  changed — I  scarce  know  why  ; — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay, 
And  youth,  and  health,  and  visions  high 

Melt  like  a  wreath  of  snow  away  ! — 
.Time  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill! 

Though  worn  in  this  world's  sickening  strife, 
In  soul  and  form — I  linger  still 

In  the  first  summer  month  of  life; 
Yet  journey  on  my  path  below — 
Oh  !  how  unlike — ten  years  ago  ! 

But  look  not  thus — I  would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hopes  that  thou  must  share, 

To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive, 
When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair ! 


176  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

We've  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather, 

When  winds  were  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom, 

And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together, 

And  still  will  keep,  'mid  storm  and  gloom, 

Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 

When  life  was  young — ten  years  ago  ! 

Has  fortune  frowned  ?     Her  frowns  were  vain  ! 

For  hearts  like  ours  she  could  not  chill. 
Have  friends  proved  false  ?    Their  love  might  wane  ! 

But  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer,  still. 
Twin  barks  on  this  world's  changing  wave, 

Stedfast  in  calms — in  tempests  tried — 
In  concert  still  our  fate  we'll  brave  ; 

Together  cleave  life's  fitful  tide, 
Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow, 
Youth's  first  wild  dreams — ten  years  ago ! 

Have  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed, 

And  watched  our  first-born  blossom  die  ? 
Hoped — till  the  shade  of  hope  had  fled, 

Then  wept  till  feeling's  fount  was  dry  ? 
Was  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour 

To  think — rnid  mutual  tears  and  sighs—- 
Our bud  had  left  its  earthly  bovver 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise? 
What  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  woe 
Were  heartless  joys — ten  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  it  is  sweet,  when  Heaven  is  bright, 

To  share  its  sunny  beams  with  thee  ! 
But  sweeter  far,  'mid  clouds  and  blight, 

To  have  thee  near  to  weep  with  me. 
Then  dry  those  tears — though  something  changed 

From  what  we  were  in  earlier  youth. 
Time  that  hath  friends  and  hopes  estranged, 

Hath  left  us  love  in  all  its  truth  ; — 
Sweet  feelings  we  would  not  forego 

For  life's  best  joys — ten  years  ago  ! 
February  3,  1824.  A.  A.  W. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  177 


LINES 

SENT    WITH    AN    HOUR    GLASS    TO    A  LADY    ON    NEW 
YEAR'S    DAY. 

YES  all  things  fade  away 

That  the  soul  cherishes  and  seeks  on  earth  ; — 
Fair  flowers  !  that  do  but  bloom  their  summer's  day, 

And  are  forgot — their  being  and  their  birth. 

Youth  hath  its  favoured  hour, 

Of  fancies,  and  high  hopes,  and  dazzling  dreams  ; 
It  flies — and  with  it  all  the  glittering  dower 

That  to  young  bosoms  the  securest  seems  ! 

And  Manhood's  hour  comes  next, 

Fevered  and  filled  with  the  world's  active  thought ; 
Schemes,  and  ambitions  ; — till  the  spirit  vexed, — 

Finds  that  its  hour  hath  fled — and  left  it  nought! 

Shortest  and  last  is  thine, 

Wasted  in  vain  regrets  and  memories — Age  ! 
For  while  thy  retrospects  too  brightly  shine, 

The  sand  ebbs  out — so  doth  thy  pilgrimage  ! 

Thus  pleasure  hath  its  hour! 

And  grief  and  pain  and  peril  have  no  more  ; 
Hatred,  and  love,  but  the  same  transient  power, 

Time  but  remains — ruling  as  heretofore ! 

On — conqueror  of  the  earth  ! 

And  fold  not  yet  thy  world-destroying  wing  ! 
Still  reign — while  scattering  man's  work  and  worth, 

Omnipotent!  o'er  each  created  thing! 

Thy  end  will  come,  Oh  Time ! 

VVhen  thou,  a  conqueror  shalt  conquered  be; 
Thyself,  thy  victories,  and  thy  power  sublime, 

No  more  remembered — in  Eternity! 
Leeds  Intelligencer.  M.  J.  J. 


178  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  COVENANTER'S   HEATHER-BED. 


poem,  suggested  by  the  picture  representing  the  Temp- 
tation of  St.  Anthony,  by  TVnter*,  exemplifies  the  differ- 
ent aspect  which  the  same  subject  and  situation  would 
assume' when  clothed  in  the  images  supplied  by  Scottish 
Puritanism. 

A  STORMY  night  and  dark,  had  closed  a  gloomy  day, 

And  couched  upon  the  heath  a  Covenanter  Jay  ; 

His  feet  were  tired  and  damp,  with  the  clays  of  many  a  hill, 

And  in  his  sleeping  ear  the  wind  was  roaring  still  ; 

When  the  powers  of  darkness  thronged  with  persevering  spite, 

To  tempt  his  weary  soul  'mid  the  visions  of  the  night. 

And  first  a  black  one  came,  and  said,  with  scornful  eye, 

*  Come,  Jonathan,  get  up,  and  your  merits  let  us  try  ; 
If  you  be  strong  in  faith,  here  take  me  by  the  hand, 

Pull  up  while  1  draw  down, — we'll  see  who  best  can  stand  ; — 
When  flames  break  out  beneath  us,  and  yawning  earth  is  riven, 
'Twill  then  be  brought  to  proof  what  hold  you  have  on  heaven. 

*  You  boldly  walk  by  day,  while  sunshine  warms  the  ground  ; 
The  breeze  cheers  up  your  heart,  and  the  wild  bee  hums  around, 
But  when  our  dark  hour  comes,  your  songs  and  vaunts  decrease, 
And,  trusting  to  your  works,  you  fain  would  sleep  in  peace; — 
But  if  in  works  you  trust,  I  have  witnesses  behind, 

Who  can  speak  of  former  deeds,  and  recall  them  to  your  mind.* 

And  then  straightway  the  fiend  for  another  fiend  made  room, 
Who  carried  in  his  hand  a  sprig  of  yellow  broom, 
And  said,  '  This  broom  was  cut  in  that  glen  of  gowans  fine, 
W'here  you  were  wont  in  youth  to  drive  a  herd  of  kine  ; 
For  its  crystal  brook  you  deemed  that  glen  beyond  compare, 
But  more  for  a  blue-eyed  girl,  who  also  herded  there. 

*  When  with  her  you  would  sit,  one  plaid  encircled  both, 

You  called  yourself  her  true  love — to  her  you  pledged  your  troth  ; 
But  when  you  grew  a  man,  and  was  master  of  some  sheep, 
And  saw  some  fanners'  daughters,  you  left  her  there  to  weep  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  179 

Among  the  lonely  knolls  her  heart  sobbed  out  its  pain, 
And  'twas  said  her  silken  snood  ne'er  tied  so  well  again.' 

The  one  who  next  appeared,  a  tattered  bible  bore, 

And  said,  '  when  first  in  youth  you  left  your  mother's  door, 

With  swimming  eyes  she  came,  this  book  she  bade  you  take, 

And  keep  it  as  her  gilt,  and  read  it  for  her  sake  ; 

But  scarce  two  days  were  past,  ere  at  a  drunken  fair 

You  lost  it  in  the  streets,  to  be  soiled  arid  trampled  there.' 

The  next  who  came  to  taunt,  a  piece  of  money  showed, 

And  said,  'When  paying  last  a  neighbour  what  you  owed, 

He  was  an  aged  man,  and  somewhat  thick  of  sight, 

And  you  therefore  slid  this  coin  among  others  that  were  bright  ; 

But  the  edge  was  partly  worn,  and  the  brass  that  glared  behind 

Disgraced  its  silver  coat,  like  a  secret  sinner's  mind.' 

Tormented  thus  and  stung  by  many  a  bitter  word, 
4  The  last,'  he  cries,  '  is  false  !'  and  starts  and  grasps  his  sword. 
Around  on  every  side,  his  furious  strokes  he  plies, 
Among  their  flitting  shapes,  among  their  glaring  eyes  ; 
But  laughing  at  his  rage,  on  sooty  wings  they  fled, 
And  a  new  rattling  shower  assailed  his  heather-bed. 
BlackwoocTs  Magazine. 


LOVE. 

NAY,  pray  thee,  let  me  weep,  for  tears 
Are  Love's  most  fitting  offerings  ; 

I'll  weep  his  smiles,  I'll  weep  his  sighs, 
But,  more  than  all,  I'll  weep  his  wings. 

I'Jl  weep  his  smiles,  for  first  they  taught 
My  young  heart  what  his  sighs  could  he ; 

I'll  weep  his  wings,  for  they  have  borne 

Away  the  truth  you  plighted  me. 
Literary  Gazette. 


180  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN    BY    THE    SEA    SIDE. 

ONE  evening  as  the  sun  went  down, 
Gilding  the  mountains  bare  and  brown, 

I  wandered  on  the  shore  ; 
And  sucli  a  blaze  o'er  ocean  spread, 
And  beauty  on  the  meek  earth  shed, 

I  never  saw  before  ! 

I  was  not  lonely  ; — dwellings  fair 

Were  scattered  'round  and  shining  there  ;- 

Gay  groups  were  on  the  green 
Of  children,  wild  with  reckless  glee, 
Arid  parents  that  could  child-like  be 

With  them  and  in  that  scene. 

And,  on  the  sea  that  looked  of  gold, 
Each  toy-like  skiff  and  vessel  bold 

Glided,  and  yet  seemed  still  ; 
While  sounds  rose  in  the  quiet  air, 
That  mingling  made  sweet  music  there, 

Surpassing  Minstrel's  skill  ! — 

The  breezy  murmur  from  the  shore, — 
Joy's  laugh  re-echoed  o'er  and  o'er 

Alike  by  sire  and  child, — 
The  whistle  shrill, — the  broken  song, 
The  far  off  flute-notes  lingering  long, — 

The  lark's  strain  rich  and  wild. 

I  looked,  I  listened, — and  the  spell 
Of  Music  and  of  Beauty  fell 

So  radiant  on  my  heart, 
That  scarcely  durst  I  really  deem 
What  yet  I  would  not  own  a  dream, 

Lest  dream-like,  it  depart. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

'Twas  sunset  in  the  world  around  ;— 
And,  looking  inwards,  so  I  found 

'Twas  sun-set  in  the  soul; 
Nor  grief,  nor  mirth,  were  burning  there, 
But  musings  sweet  and  visions  fair, 

In  placid  beauty  stole. 

But  moods  like  these,  the  human  mind, 
Though  seeking  oft,  may  seldom  find, 

Or,  finding,  force  to  stay  ; — 
As  dews  upon  the  drooping  flower, 
That  having  shone  their  little  hour, 

Dry  up — or  fall  away. 

But  though  all  pleasures  take  their  flight, 
Yet  some  will  leave  memorials  bright 

For  many  an  after  year  ; 
This  sunset,  that  dull  night  will  shade, — 
These  visions,  which  must  quickly  fade, 
Will  half-immortal  memory  braid 

For  me,  when  far  from  here  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  M.  J.  J. 


IMPROMPTU 

TO     LADY     HOLLAND     ON     NAPOLEONS     LEGACY     OF     A 
SNUFF     BOX. 

BY    THOMAS    MOORE,    ESft. 

GIFT  of  the  Hero,  on  his  dying  day, 

To  her,  whose  pity  watched,  forever  nigh  ; 

Oh  !  could  he  see  the  proud,  the  happy  ray, 
This  relic  lights  up  on  her  generous  eye, 

Sighing,  he'd  feel  how  easy  'tis  to  pay 

A  friendship  all  his  kingdoms  could  not  buy. 
16 


182  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  DYING  POET'S  FAREWELL. 

Animula  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque  corpoiis, 
Qua3  mine  abibis  in  Joca? 

O  THOU  wondrous  arch  of  azure, 
Sun,  and  starry  plains  immense  ! 

Glories  that  astound  the  gazer 
By  their  dread  magnificence  ! — 

O  thou  ocean,  whose  commotion 

Awes  the  proudest  to  devotion, 

Must  I — must  I  from  ye  fly, 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ! — 

O  ye  keen  and  gusty  mountains, 
On  whose  tops  I  braved  the  sky  ! 

O  ye  music-pouring  fountains, 
On  whose  marge  I  loved  to  lie  ! 

O  ye  posies, — lilies,  roses, 

All  the  charms  that  earth  discloses, 

Must  I — must  I  from  ye  fly, 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ! 

O  ye  birds,  whose  matin  chorus 
Taught  me  to  rejoice  and  bless  ! 

And  ye  beasts,  whose  voice  sonorous 
Swelled  the  hymn  of  thankfulness  ; 

Learned  leisure,  and  the  pleasure, 

Of  the  muse,  my  dearest  treasure, 

Must  I — must  1  from  ye  fly, 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  1 

O  domestic  ties  endearingr 

Which  still  chain  my  soul  to  earth  1 
O  ye  friends,  whose  converse  cheering 

Winged  the  hours  with  social  mirth  ! 
Songs  of  gladness,  chasing  sadness, 
Wine's  delight  without  its  madness, 
Must  I — must  I  from  ye  fly, 
Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  183 

Yes  !— I  now  fulfil  the  fiction 

Of  the  swan  that  sings  in  death  : — 

Earth,  receive  my  henediction  ! 
Air,  inhale  my  parting  breath  ! 

Hills  and  valleys,  forest  alleys, 

Prompters  of  my  muse's  sallies; 

Fields  of  green,  and  skies  of  blue, 

Take,  oh  take  my  last  adieu  ! 

Yet,  perhaps,  when  all  is  ended, 
And  the  grave  dissolves  my  frame, 

The  elements  from  which  'twas  blended 
May  their  several  parts  reclaim  ; 

Waters  flowing,  breezes  blowing, 

Earth,  and  all  upon  it  growing, 

Still  may  have  my  altered  essence 

Ever  floating  in  their  presence. 

While  my  disembodied  spirit 

May  to  fields  Elysian  soar, 
And  some  lowest  seat  inherit 

Near  the  mighty  bards  of  yore  ; 
Never,  never  to  dissever, 
But  to  dwell  in  bliss  forever, 
Tuning  an  enthusiast  lyre 
To  that  high  and  laurelled  quire. 
London  Magazine,  H. 


IMITATION  OF  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

I  MOURN  not  those  who  have  already  left 

Life — the  sweet  light  of  life— and  life's  pure  breath  : — 
But,  oh,  I  mourn  their  state,  of  Hope  bereft, 

Who,  living,  pine  in  hourly  dread  of  death, 
And  dying  live  ; — and  supplicate  the  gift 

Of  added  years  to  deck  their  wintry  wreath 
Of  hoary  honours  ; — and  when  years  are  given, 
Then  pray  for  more — to  make  their  peace  with  heaven  ! 


184  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  DEAD  BIRD. 

A    SKETCH. 

'Tis  her  first  grief !— The  bird  is  dead. 
How  many  a  mournful  word  was  said ! 
How  many  a  tear  was  o'er  it  shed  ! 

The  anguish  of  the  shock  is  past, 
But  Memory's  thoughts  those  eyes  o'ercast ; 
As,  like  the  violet  gemmed  with  dew, 
Glitters  through  tears  their  lovely  blue. 

*Tis  her  first  grief! — Motionless  there 

Is  stretched  the  fondling  of  her  care  ; 

No  longer  may  she  hear  his  voice, 

No  longer  in  his  sports  rejoice  ; 

And  scarcely  dare  she  lift  her  eyes, 

To  where  her  lifeless  treasure  lies. 

But  yesterday  who  could  foresee 

That  such  a  change  as  this  might  be, 

That  she  should  call  and  he  not  hear, — 

That  bird  who  knew  and  loved  her  dear  ; 

Who,  when  her  finger  touched  his  cage, 

'Gainst  it  a  mimic  war  would  wage  ; 

Who  pecked  the  sweetmeat  from  her  hand, 

And  on  her  ringlets  took  his  stand ! 

As  all  these  recollections  rise, 

Again  does  sorrow  drown  the  eyes, 

The  little  bosom  swell  with  sighs  : — . 

*  Another  bird  ! — No,  never,  never  ! 

Empty  shall  be  that  cage  for  ever.' 

'Tis  her  first  grief! — And  it  will  fade 
Or  ere  the  next  sun  sinks  in  shade. 
Ah  !  happy  age,  when  smile  and  tear 
Alternate  in  the  eyes  appear ; 
When  sleep  can  every  care  remove, 
And  morn's  light  wake  to  hope  and  love. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  185 

But  Childhood  flies  like  spring-time's  hour, 

And  deepening  shadows  o'er  youth  lour  ! 

Even  thou,  fair  girl,  must  one  day  know 

Oflife  the  painfulness  and  wo, 

The  sadness  that  sleep  cannot  cure, 

Griefs  that  through  nights  and  days  endure; 

Those  natural  pangs  to  mortals  given,  [heaven. 

To  wean  us  from  this  earth,  and  lead  our  thoughts  to 

Literary  Gazette.  ISABEL. 


SONNET, 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    WOODS    OF    BOLTON    ABBEY. 
BI    BAR.RY    CORNWALL. 

THERE  is  no  lovelier  scene  in  all  the  land  ! — 

Around  me  far  a  green  enchantment  lies, 

Fed  by  the  weeping  of  these  April  skies. 

And  touched  by  Fancy's  great  '  all  charming  wand/ 

Almost  I  expect  to  see  a  lightsome  band 

Come  stealing  through  the  hazel  boughs,  and  cross 

My  path — or  half  asleep  upon  the  moss, 

Some  Satyr  with  stretched  arm,  and  clenched  hand. 

It  is  a  place  of  beauty  ! — Here,  half  hid 

By  yellowing  ash  and  drooping  aspens,  run 

The  river  waters — as  to  meet  the  sun  ; 

And  in  the  distance,  boiling  in  its  might. 

The  fatal  fall  is  seen — the  thundering  Strid  ; — 

And  over  all  the  morning  blue  and  bright. 

London  Magazine. 


16* 


186  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  LAST  MAN. 

BY    T.    CAMPBELL,    ESQ. 

ALL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  Sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality  ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, — 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan,— 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands  ; 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ; 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread  ; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead, 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by  ; 
Saying, — we're  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go. 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 
His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  187 

And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood  and  earth, 

The  vassals  ofhis  will  ; — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim  discrowned  king  of  day  ! 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
In  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain,  anew  to  writhe  ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 
•  To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  nature  spreads  my  pall, — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

lleceive  my  parting  ghost! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

That  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  ait  dark! 
No  !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 


188  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory, 
And  took  the  sting  from  Death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste, 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod  ; 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  ! 
New  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  SPAIN. 

BY    LORD    HOLLAND. 

Paz  con  Inglaterra,  con  todo  el  mundo  Guerra. 

ON  that  steep  ridge  beyond  Bayonna's  bold, 
Methought  a  giant  figure  did  appear, 
Sunburnt  and  rough  ! — He  on  his  limbs  did  wear 
Bright  steel  and  raiment  fairer  than  of  old, 
But  yet  uncouth  in  speech — '  I  nothing  fear 
Yon  braggart  threats,'  quoth  he  in  accents  bold, 
*  Let  recreant  France  her  fine-spun  plots  unfold, 
And  come  with  train  barbarian  in  her  rear, 
Croat  or  Muscovite  ! — My  native  pride 
Withered  such  hosts,  when  mightier  captains  led: 
CaBsar,  Napoleon,  ill  with  me  have  sped  ! 
And  shall  I  crouch  now  Freedom  is  my  bride  ! 
No  ! — the  young  offspring  of  that  heavenly  bed, — 
Stand  England  firm,-shall  'gainst  the  World  make  head.' 
Morning  Chronicle. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  189 

A  FAREWELL. 

BY    ISMAEL    FITZADAM. 

FARE  thee  well,  land  of  my  birth, 
That  spot  the  most  sacred  on  earth  ! — 
At  last  I  have  broken  the  spell 
That  bound  my  heart  to  thee, — farewell ! 

Away  idle  sorrows,  that  wet 
My  cheek  with  unhidden  regret! — 
I  leave  no  fond  sympathy  here 
That  asks,  at  my  parting,  one  tear. 

With  a  love  that  scarce  death  could  remove, 
Have  I  clung  to  thee,  land  of  my  love! 
Yet  found  hut  such  fostering  and  rest 
As  the  babe  at  its  dead  mother's  breast. 

Lift  the  sail. — The  lone  spirit  that  braves 
The  loud  going  forth  of  the  waves 
Wherever  they  cast  him,  will  mid 
A  country,  and  bosoms,  more  kind. 

Lift  the  sail — all  remembrances  sleep 
In  the  rush  and  the  roar  of  the  deep, 
As  its  tide  blots  the  lines,  which  the  hand 
Of  childhood  had  etched  on  the  sand. 

Denied  to  my  chance-kindled  fire 
The  wreath  that  belongs  to  the  lyre, 
Yet  my  good  sword  the  battle  shall  join, 
And  chivalry's  garland  be  mine. 

Or  victory,  torn  from  the  brow 
Of  the  Paynim,  shall  hallow  my  vow, — 
Or  fallen  in  the  strife  of  the  brave, 
Young  Glory  shall  beam  on  my  grave  ! 


190  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Fare  thee  well,  land  of  my  birth, 
The  one  spot  most  sacred  of  earth  ! — 
At  last  I  have  burst  through  the  spell 
That  bound  my  heart  to  thee  ! — Farewell ! 
Literary   Gazette. 


LINES,  . 

WRITTEN    AMONG    THE    RUINS    IN    AMPTHILL    PARK. 


BY    J.    H.    WIFFEX,    E 

Out  upon  time.  —  LORD  BYRON. 

BRIGHTLY  the  moon-beams  slept  amid 
Chambers  'mid  rifled  ruin  hid  ; 
For  the  alder  rankled  at  the  door, 
And  thistles  grew  on  the  chill  damp  floor  ; 
And  proudly  the  flourishing  ivy  wound 
Pillar  and  column  and  roof  around  ! 
The  vacant  and  desolate  windows  now 
Waving  grass  and  herbage  flout  ; 
And  from  the  night  raven's  sheltering  bough, 
At  times  the  howling  fox  looks  out  ; 
And  each  massy  court  and  tower  sublime, 
Is  eat  by  the  silent  tusk  of  TIME  ! 
O,  how  unlike  their  years  of  prime, 
By  chieftains  visited  !  —  OUT  UPON  TIME  ! 
RUIN,  and  ravin,  and  wild  decay, 
Herald  him  on  his  blighting  way  ! 
Where  points  his  finger,  —  lours  the  storm  ; 
Where  his  eye  fixes  —  feeds  the  worm  ; 
Where  treads  his  step,  —  there  glory  lies  ; 
Where  breathes  his  breath,  —  there  beauty  dies. 
He  breaks  the  oppressor's  iron  rod  ; 
Crumbles  the  robes  of  the  Priest  of  God  ; 
On  the  palace  of  kings  and  the  peasant's  cot, 
He  turns  his  visage  and  they  —  are  not  ! 
Even  lofty  song  and  the  magic  of  rhyme 
Yield  at  length  to  his  power  !  —  OUT  —  OUT  UPON  TIME  ! 
Leeds  Intelligencer. 


iqi 
THE    POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE   MICHELMAS  DAISY. 

LAST  smile  of  the  departing  year, 
Thy  sister  sweets  are  flown  ! 

Thy  pensive  wreath  is  far  more  dear 
From  blooming  thus  alone  ! 

Thy  tender  blush,  thy  simple  frame, 
Unnoticed  might  have  passed; 

But  now  thou  com'st,  with  softer  claim, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last. 

Sweet  are  the  charms  in  thee  we  find, — 

Emblem  of  Hope's  pay  wing; 
'Tis  thine  to  call  past  bloom  to  mind, 

To  promise  future  spring. 
iterary  Gazette. 

17 


194  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM, 


^^c  mi  me  lair-oosonied  daughters  of  earth, 
'Tis  to  turn  to  thy  beauties — of  beauty  the  Queen  ! 
And  if  from  man's  dwelling  to  Nature  I  flee, 
Glen — mountain — and  ocean — seem  breathing  of  thee. 

When  a  soft  soothing  glance  from  the  eye  of  affection 

Breaks  my  midnight  of  gloom  with  its  halo  divine, 
How  surpassingly  sweet  is  the  bright  recollection 

Of  the  passionate  love  ever  beaming  from  thine  ! — 
'Twill  beam  on  me  no  more  !— Yet  though  death  has  bereft  m 

Of  a  form  such  as  Seraphs  from  heaven  might  adore, — 
In  this  image— thy  features  of  beauty  are  left  me, 

And  the  lines  of  thy  soul  in  my  heart's  core  of  core  1 
Then  reproach  me  not,  sweet  one  !  for  time  shall  not  see 
The  hour  that  estranges  one  deep  thought  of  thee. 

Literary  Gazette.  A.  A.  W. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE   HAPPY  ISLE. 

THERE  was  a  light  upon  the  stream, 

Just  one  pale  and  silent  beam 

From  the  moon's  departing  car, 

From  the  setting  morning  star, 

Like  Hope  asking,  timidly, 

Whether  it  must  live  or  die  ; 

But  that  twilight  pause  is  past ! — 

Crimson  hues  are  colouring  fast, 

All  the  eastern  clouds  that  fly, 

Banners  spread  triumphantly. 

The  moon  is  but  a  speck  of  white, 

The  sun  has  looked  away  her  light ; 

Farewell  Night,  thy  shadowy  gleams, 

Dewy  flowers,  gentle  dreams ! 

Be  thy  starry  pinions  furled, — 

Day  has  blushed  upon  the  world. 

Never  day-beam  hath  shone  o'er 

Lovelier  or  wilder  shore  ! 

Half  was  land,  and  half  was  sea, 

Where  the  eye  could  only  see 

The  blue  sky  for  boundary. 

From  the  green  woods  sounds  are  ringing, 

For  the  wakened  birds  are  singing 

To  the  blossoms  where  they  slept, 

Thanks  for  the  sweet  watch  they  kept. 

Here  stand  tall  and  stately  trees ; 

Others,  that  the  slightest  breeze 

Bows  to  earth,  and  from  their  bloom 

Shakes  and  rifles  the  perfume  : 

Like  woman,  feeble  but  to  bless, 

Sweetest  in  weak  loveliness! 

Music  is  upon  the  air, — 

Azure  wings  are  waving  there  ; 

Music  is  on  yonder  hill, 

A  low  song  from  its  bright  rill, 

Where  the  water  lilies  float, 

And  the  Indian  Cupid's  boat, 


195 


196  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

The  red  Lotus  ;  while  above 
Hang  the  Grecian  flowers  of  love, 
Roses — leading  soft  and  bright, 
Lives,  half  perfume  and  half  light; 
In  their  leaves  the  honey  bee 
Lulled  to  sleep,  voluptuously. 
There  are  shades,  which  the  red  sun 
Never  yet  has  looked  upon  ; 
Where  the  moon  has  but  the  power 
Of  a  cool  and  twilight  hour. 
By  the  sea  are  sparry  caves, 
Where  the  music  of  the  waves 
Never  ceases,  and  the  walls 
Are  hung  with  the  coronals 
Left  by  Sea-maids,  when  they  wring 
Pearls,  which  in  their  wet  hair  cling. 
'Tis  a  land  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
Silver  waters,  sunny  hours; 
Human  foot  has  never  prest 
Its  so  sweet  and  silent  rest. 
But  a  bark  is  on  the  sea, 
And  those  in  that  bark  will  be 
Soon  upon  the  island  shore, 
And  its  loneliness  is  o'er! 
Oh,  if  any  dare  intrude 
On  the  lovely  solitude ! 
If  there  be  that  need  not  fear 
Breaking  the  sweet  quiet  here ! 
If  there  should  be  those,  for  whom 
Leaves  expand  and  flowers  bloom, 
Birds  breathe  song, — oh,  if  there  be, 
Surely,  Love,  it  is  for  thee  ! 
Lover's  step  would  softly  press 
Flowers  with  its  light  caress; 
Lover's  words  would  have  atone 
With  each  song  in  unison  ! 
Lover's  smiles  would  be  as  fail- 
As  the  sunniest  day-beam  there  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  197 

And  no  roses  would  be  sweet 
As  the  sighs  when  lovers  meet. 
The  slight  bark  came  o'er  the  sea, 
Two  leant  in  it  mournfully  : — 
One  who  left  her  convent  cell 
With  the  youth  she  loved  so  well  ; 
One  who  left  his  native  land 
For  the  sake  of  that  dear  hand. 
Shine  and  storm  they  had  sailed  through — 
What  is  there  love  dare  not  do  ? 
Her  arm  round  his  neck  was  thrown, 
His  was  round  her  like  a  zone, 
Guarding  with  such  anxious  fear 
All  it  had  in  love  most  dear. 
Pale  her  cheek,  and  the  sea  spray 
Dashed  upon  it,  as  she  lay 
Pillowed  on  her  lover's  arm  ; 
But  her  lip  still  kept  the  charm 
(Fondly  raised  to  his  the  while) 
Of  its  own  peculiar  smile, 
As  with  him  she  had  no  fear 
Of  the  rushing  waters  near; 
And  the  youth's  dark  flashing  eye 
Answered  her's,  so  tenderly, 
So  wildly,  warmly,  passionate, 
As  she  only  were  his  fate. 
But  Hope  rises  from  her  grave, 
There  is  a  land  upon  the  wave  : 
What  are  toils  or  perils  past 
Reached  is  the  bright  isle  at  last, 
Free  from  care  or  earthly  thrall, 
For  Love's  own  sweet  festival ! 
Literary  Gazttte.  L.  E.  L. 


17* 


198  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  FALLING  LEAF. 

A    REVERIE    AT    MATLOCK,    IN    DERBYSHIRE, 
BY  JAMES    MONTGOMERY,    ES€t. 

WERE  I  a  trembling  leaf 

On  yonder  stately  tree, 
After  a  season  gay  and  brief, 

Condemned  to  fade  and  flee, — 

I  should  be  loth  to  fall 

Beside  the  common  way, 
Weltering  in  mire,  and  spurned  by  all, 

Till  trodden  down  to  clay. 

I  would  not  choose  to  die 

All  on  a  bed  of  grass, 
Where  thousands  of  my  kindred  lie, 

And  idly  rot  in  mass. 

Nor  would  I  like  to  spread 

My  thin  and  withered  face, 
In  hortus  siccus,  pale  and  dead, 

A  mummy  of  my  race. 

No, — on  the  wings  of  air 

Might  I  be  left  to  fly, 
I  know  not,  and  I  heed  not  where, 

A  waif  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

Or,  cast  upon  the  stream, 

Curled  like  a  fhiry-boat, 
As  through  the  chances  of  a  dream, 

To  the  world's  end  I'd  float. 

Who,  that  hath  ever  been, 

Could  bear  to  be  no  more  ? 
Yet  who  would  tread  again  the  scene 

He  trod  through  life  before ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

On,  with  intense  desire, 
Man's  spirit  will  move  on ; 

It  seems  to  die,  yet  like  heaven's  fire 

It  is  not  quenched,  but  gone. 
London  Magazine. 


199 


SONG. 

BY    JOSIAH    CONDER,    ESQ. 

'TWAS  not  when  early  flowers  were  springing, 

When  skies  were  sheen, 

And  wheat  was  green, 
And  birds  of  love  were  singing, 
That  first  I  loved  thee,  or  that  thon 
Didst  first  the  tender  claim  allow. 

For  when  the  silent  woods  had  faded 

From  green  to  yellow, — 

When  fields  were  fallow, 
And  the  changed  skies  o'ershaded, — 
My  love  might  then  have  shared  decay, 
Or  passed  with  summer  songs  away. 

'Twas  winter, — cares  and  clouds  were  'round  me, 

Instead  of  flowers 

And  sunny  hours, 

When  Love  unguarded  found  me  : — 
'Mid  wintry  scenes  my  passion  grew, 
And  wintry  cares  have  proved  it  true. 

Dear  are  the  hours  of  summer  weather, 

When  all  is  bright, 

And  hearts  are  light, 
And  Love  and  Nature  joy  together  ; — 
But  stars  from  night  their  lustre  borrow, — 
And  hearts  are  closer  twined  by  sorrow. 
London  Magazine. 


200  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 


TO  LADY  HOLLAND, 

ON  THE  SNUFF-BOX  BEQUEATHED  TO  HER  RY  BONA- 
PARTE. 

BY  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE. 

LADY,  reject  the  gift !  'tis  tinged  with  gore  ! 

Those  crimson  spots  a  dreadful  tale  relate  : 
It  has  been  grasped  by  an  infernal  Power ; 

And  by  that  hand  which  sealed  young  Enghien's  fate. 

Lady,  reject  the  gift ;  beneath  its  lid 

Discord  and  Slaughter,  and  relentless  War, 

With  every  plague  to  wretched  man  lie  hid — 
Let  not  these  loose  to  range  the  world  afar. 

Say,  what  congenial  to  his  heart  of  stone, 
In  thy  soft  bosom  could  the  Tyrant  trace  ? 

When  does  the  dove  the  eagle's  friendship  own, 
Or  the  wolf  hold  the  lamb  in  pure  embrace  ? 

Think  of  that  pile,*  to  Addison  so  dear, 

Where  Sully  feasted,  and  where  Rogers'  song 

Still  adds  sweet  music  to  the  perfumed  air, 
And  gently  leads  each  Grace  and  Muse  along. 

Pollute  not,  then,  these  scenes — the  gift  destroy  :     ' 
'Twill  scare  the  Dryads  from  that  lovely  shade; 

With  them  will  fly  all  rural  peace  and  joy, 

And  screaming  fiends  their  verdant  haunts  invade. 

That  mystic  Box  hath  magic  power  to  raise 
Spectres  of  myriads  slain,  a  ghastly  band  ; 

They'll  vex  thy  slumbers,  cloud  thy  sunny  days, 
Starting  from  Moscow's  snows  or  Egypt's  sand. 

*  Holland  House. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  201 

And  ye  who,  bound  in  Verdun's  treacherous  chains, 
Slow  pined  to  death  beneath  a  base  control, 

Say,  shall  not  all  abhor,  where  Freedom  reigns, 
That  petty  vengeance  of  a  little  soul  ? 

The  warning  Muse  no  idle  trifler  deem  : 

Plunge  the  cursed  mischief  in  wide  Ocean's  flood  ; 

Or  give  it  to  our  own  majestic  stream — 

The  only  stream  he  could  not  dye  with  blood. 


SONNET, 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    POET    KEATS. 

AND  art  thou  dead  ?     Thou  very  sweetest  bird 

That  ever  made  a  moonlight  forest  ring ! 

Its  wild  unearthly  music  mellowing  ! 

Shall  thy  rich  notes  no  more,  no  more  be  heard  ? 

Never!     Thy  beautiful  romantic  themes, 

That  made  it  mental  heaven  to  hear  thee  sing, 

Lapping  the  enchanted  soul  in  golden  dreams, 

Are  mute  !     Ah  !  vainly  did  Italia  fling 

Her  healing  ray  around  thee — blossoming 

With  blushing  flowers,  long  wedded  to  thy  verse  ! 

Those  flowers,  those  sunbeams,  but  adorn  thy  hearse  ; 

And  the  warm  gales,  that  faintly  rise  and  fall, 

In  music's  clime — themselves  so  musical,  [hall. 

Shall  chaunt  the  minstrel's  dirge  far  from  his  father's 


202  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


A  FAREWELL. 

O,  FARE  thee  well !  the  bitter  hour  is  past, 
And  the  dread  conflict  of  my  fate  is  o'er ; 

Of  thy  loved  voice  mine  ear  hath  heard  its  last, 
And  thy  bright  form  I  now  may  see  no  more. 

Yet  wilt  thou  sigh  for  days  for  ever  gone, 

When  hope  was  young,  and  mutual  faith  secure; 

And  thy  pale  cheek  that  inward  smart  shall  own, 
Which  thy  false  bosom  must,  perforce,  endure. 

The  frown  of  friends  estranged,-Hate's  pointed  sneer, — 

Untempted  Virtue's  pharisaic  scorn, — 
All  that  an  erring  heart  could  feel  or  fear, 

Hath  mine  almost  without  a  murmur  borne. 

For  thou  wert  all  my  lonely  hope  and  pride, — 
My  polar  star  when  sorrow  darkly  frowned  ! — 

On  thy  loved  breast  life's  darkest  ills  defied, 
I  nestled  safe  from  storms  that  raged  around. 

The  lonely  shepherd,  by  his  native  stream, 

Sees  a  young  wave  along  its  surface  gliding, — 

Now  sparkling  in  the  summer's  genial  beam, 
And  now  amid  the  shady  willows  hiding  ; — 

Till  sudden  down  the  cataract's  headlong  steep, 
Hurled  'rnid  the  mass  of  waters'  deafening  roar, 

It  bounds  to  the  vast  chasm,  gloomy  and  deep, 
Sparkles,  to  spray, — shines — and  is  seen  no  more  ! 

I  am  that  wave, — and  thus  it  fares  with  me  ! 

Ruined  and  lost,  what  more  have  I  to  tell ! 
What  but  to  offer  from  my  heart  to  thee, 

Its  warmest  prayer,  in  one  wild  word, — FAREWELL  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM, 


PALMYRA. 

SAD  city  of  the  silent  place  ! 
Queen  of  the  dreary  wilderness, 
No  voice  of  life,  no  passing  sound 
Disturbs  thy  dreadful  calm  around  ; 
Save  the  wild  desert-dweller's  roar, 
Which  tells  the  reign  of  man  is  o'er, 
Or  winds  that  through  thy  portals  sigh 
Upon  their  night  course  flitting  by  ! 

The  eternal  ruins  frowning  stand, 
Like  giant  spectres  of  the  land  ; 
Or  o'er  the  dead  like  mourners  hang, 
Bent  down  by  speechless  sorrow's  pang; 
Where  time  and  space,  and  loneliness, 
All,  o'er  the  saddened  spirit  press, 
Around  in  leaden  slumbers  lie 
The  dread  wastes  of  infinity, 
Where  not  a  gentle  hill  doth  swell, 
Where  not  a  hermit  shrub  doth  dwell ; 
And  where  the  song  of  wandering  flood 
Ne'er  voiced  the  fearful  solitude. 

How  sweetly  sad  our  pensive  tears 
Flow  o'er  each  broken  arch  that  rears 
Its  gray  head  through  the  mists  of  years ! 
And  where  are  now  the  dreams  of  Fame, 
The  promise  of  a  deathless  name  ? 
Alas  !  the  deep  delusion's  gone  ! 
And  all,  except  the  mouldering  stone, 
The  wreath  that  decked  the  victor's  hair, 
Hath,  like  his  glory,  withered  there. 
And  Time's  immortal  garlands  twine 
O'er  desolation's  mournful  shrine, 
Like  youth's  embrace  around  decline. 

O'er  Beauty's  dark  and  desert  bed 
Ages  of  dreamless  sleep  have  fled. 


203 


204  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  in  the  domes  where  once  she  smiled, 
The  whispering  weeds  are  waving  wild; 
The  prince's  court  is  the  jackall's  lair, 
He  peeps  through  Time's  cold  windows  there  ; 
Broken  the  harp,  and  all  unstrung, 
Perished  the  strains  the  minstrel  sung. 
The  moss  of  ages  is  their  pall, 
And  dull  oblivion  hides  them  all ! 

Yet  there,  though  now  no  mortal  eye 
Looks  forth  upon  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  evening  star  steals  out  as  mild, 
Above  the  lone  and  mighty  wild, 
As  when  young  lovers  hailed  its  light, 
Far  in  the  dark-blue  fields  of  night ; 
And  dews  as  brightly  gem  the  ground, 
As  when  a  garden  smiled  around. 

Go  read  thy  fate,  thoti  thing  of  clay, 
In  wrecks  of  ages  rolled  away ; 
Read  it  in  this  dread  book  of  doom, 
A  city  crumbled  to  a  tomb  ! 
Where  the  lorn  remnants  of  the  past 
Shed  deeper  sadness  o'er  the  waste, 
Where  Melancholy  breathes  her  spell, 
And  chroniclers  of  ruin  dwell. 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


IMPROMPTU 

ON  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  MILTON. 

WHEN  Milton's  eye  ethereal  lights  first  drew, 
Earth's  gross  and  cumberous  objects  checked  his  view  ;- 
Quick,  to  remove  these  barriers  from  his  mind, 
Nature  threw  wide  the  expanse  and  struck  him  blind. 
To  him  a  nobler  vision  then  was  given  ! — 
He  closed  his  eyes  on  earth,  to  look  on  heaven  ! 

Brighton  Gazelle.  G.  P.  B. 


TH«    POETICAL     ALBUM.  205 


DREAMS. 

We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  off;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

OH,  man  !  before  thy  feverish  brain 

What  thousand  visions  rise! 
Like  colours  on  the  evening  main, 

Each  loveliest,  till  it  dies. 
First  bends  the  burning  heart  of  youth 

Before  some  heart  untried  ; 
Deems  like  its  own,  a  stranger's  truth, 

And  scorns  the  world  beside  ! 
Then  life  is  one  enchanted  dream  ! 

The  hours  too  swift  roll  on  ; 
The  heart  is  on  the  fatal  stream, 

We  haste  to  be  undone  ; 
Pray  but  for  life  our  faith  to  prove, 
And  call  the  early  folly — Love  ! 

But  soon  life's  dangerous  morn  is  past, 

And  well  for  us  'tis  so — 
And  well  if  o'er  its  sun  be  cast 

No  cloud  of  lasting  woe. 
Then  tears  must  fall,  as  sad  as  vain, 

The  homage  to  our  pride  ; 
Yet,  broken  once  the  worthless  chain, 

That  bond  no  more  is  tied. 
We  wake, — the  light  is  round  us  shed, — 

The  prized  are  prized  no  more  ; 
The  passion  of  the  hour  has  fled, — 

The  fondness,  frenzy,  o'er  ; 
In  wisdom  we  our  idol  fly, 
And  this  is  called — Inconstancy  ! 

Then  worldly  dreams  the  spirits  sway, 

And  still  the  waking's  pain  ; 
And  hopeless  still  we  turn  away, 

And  hopeless  turn  again  : 
18 


206  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  faster,  as  the  phantoms  fly, 

Pursues  their  willing  slave  ; 
And  while  their  lustre  fills  the  eye, 

O'erlooks  the  opening  grave. 
But  years  will  stoop  the  brow  at  last, — 

The  wintry  hour  will  come  ; 
Then,  remnant,  ruin  of  the  past, 

And  trembling  o'er  her  tomb, 
To  heaven, — a  last  resource — we  fly, 
And  dare  to  call  it — Piety  ! 
The  Graces.  HELEN. 


THE  CHARM. 

FROM     THE     SPANISH. 

WIND  the  shell,  bind  the  spell ; — 
What  is  in  it  ?     Fond  farewell ! 
Wreathed  with  drops  from  azure  eyes, 
Twilight  vows  and  midnight  sighs. 

Bind  it  on  the  maiden's  soul ! 
Suns  may  set,  and  years  may  roll  ; 
Yet,  beneath  the  tender  twine 
All  the  spirit  shall  be  thine. 

Oceans  may  between  you  sweep, 
But  the  spell's  as  strong  and  deep ! 
Anguish,  distance,  time  are  vain — 
Death  alone  can  loose  the  chain. 
Literary  Gazette, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  207 


STANZAS. 

I  KNEW  not  that  the  world  contained 

A  form  so  lovely  as  thine  own  ; 
Nor  deemed  that  where  such  beauty  reigned 

Humility  would  fix  her  throne  ; 
For  I  had  marked,  where  eyes  were  bright, 

Too  well  their  owners  knew  their  power, 
And  armed  them  with  that  dazzling  light 

The  sun  emits  at  noontide's  hour  ; — 
Too  proud  to  veil  a  single  ray, 

Or  one  effulgent  glance  surrender, 
And  glittering  with  the  blaze  of  day, 

And  scorning  twilight's  softer  splendour. 

I  knew  not,  where  the  form  displayed 

Such  symmetry  and  grace  as  thine, 
That  intellect  would  lend  its  aid, 

And  sentiment  there  raise  her  shrine  ; 
For  I  had  marked  where  form  and  face 

Had  beauty's  varied  charms  combined, 
There  oft  was  wanting  feeling's  trace — 
•     The  beam  of  soul — the  ray  of  mind  ! 
And  vain  has  been  each  studied  art, 

And  futile  every  cold  endeavour  ! — 
The  light  that  comes  not    from  the  heart 

A  moment  shines — then  fades  forever. 

But  I,  at  last,  have  turned  from  those 

Whom  once  I  knew,  to  gaze  on  thee, — 
On  thee,  whose  cheek's  divinest  glows 

Reveal  thy  bosom's  purity  ! 
The  summer  sky  is  calm — serene — 

The  summer-ocean  mildly  fair, 
As  if  some  bright — some  heavenly  scene 

In  beauty  were  reflected  there  ; — 
And  thus  when  on  thy  brow  1  gaze, 

And  view  the  lights  around  it  gleaming, 
They  seem  to  be  the  living  rays 

From  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit  beaming. 
London  Magazine.  V.  D. 


208  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


EVENING  THOUGHTS. 

'TWAS  eve.     The  lengthening  shadows  of  the  oak 
And  weeping  birch,  swept  tar  adown  the  vale  ; 

And  nought  upon  the  hush  and  stillness  broke, 
Save  the  light  whispering  of  the  spring-tide  gale, 

At  distance  dying  ;  and  the  measured  stroke 
Of  woodmen  at  their  toil ;  the  feeble  wail 

Of  some  lone  stock-dove,  soothing  as  it  sank 

On  the  lulled  ear  its  melody  that  drank. 

The  sun  had  set ;  but  his  expiring  beams 
Yet  lingered  in  the  west,  and  shed  around 

Beauty  and  softness  o'er  the  woods  and  streams, 

With  coming  night's  first  tinge  of  shade  embrowned. 

The  light  clouds  mingled,  brightened  with  such  gleams 
Of  glory,  as  the  seraph-shapes  surround, 

That  in  the  visions  of  the  good  descend, 

And  o'er  their  couch  of  sorrow  seem  to  bend. 

There  are  emotions  in  that  grateful  hour 

Of  twilight  and  serenity,  which  steal 
Upon  the  heart  with  more  than  wonted  power, 

Making  more  pure  and  tender  all  we  feel, — 
Softening  its  very  core,  as  doth  the  shower 

The  thirsty  glebe  of  summer. — We  reveal 
More  in  such  hours  of  stillness,  unto  those 
We  love,  than  years  of  passion  could  disclose. 

The  heavens  look  down  on  us  with  eyes  of  love, 
And  earth  itself  looks  heavenly;  the  sleep 

Of  nature  is  around  us,  but  above 
Are  beings  that  eternal  vigils  keep. 

'Tis  sweet  to  dwell  on  such,  and  deem  they  strove 
With  sorrow  once,  and  fled  from  crowds  to  weep 

Jn  loneliness,  as  we  perchance  have  done  ; 

And  sigh  to  win  the  glory  they  have  won ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  209 

'Tis  sweet  to  mark  the  sky's  unruffled  blue 
Fast  deepening  into  darkness,  as  the  rays 

Of  lingering  eve  die  fleetly,  and  a  few 

Stars  of  the  brightest  beam  illume  the  haze, 

Like  woman's  eye  of  loveliness,  seen  through 
The  veil  that  shadows  it  in  vain  ; — we  gaze 

In  mute  and  stirless  transport,  fondly  listening, 

As  there  were  music  in  its  very  glistening. 

'Tis  thus  in  solitude  ;  but  sweeter  far 
By  those  we  love,  in  that  all-softening  hour, 

To  watch  with  mutual  eyes  each  coming  star,  [er 

And  the  faint  rnoon-rays  streaming  through  ourbow- 

Of  foliage,  wreathed  and  trembling,  as  the  car 
Of  night  rolls  duskier  onward,  and  each  flower 

And  shrub  that  droops  above  us,  on  the  sense 

Seems  dropping  fragrance  more  and  more  intense  ! 

Oh  Love  !  undying  and  ethereal  Love! 

Thou  habitant  of  heaven  strayed  to  earth! 
Or  boon  of  the  Beneficent  above 

To  worlds,  that  void  of  thee,  were  worlds  of  dearth  ! 
Soft  as  thy  Cytherean  mother's  dove — 

As  thine  own  Pysche  bright-eyed  from  thy  birth, 
Poets  might  feign,  or  priests  of  old  conceive  thee, 
And  heathen  maids  delightedly  believe  thee  ! 

Not  in  the  leafy  haunts  and  hushed  retreats 
Enthusiasts  fondly  consecrate  as  thine  ; 

Not  where,  with  smile  and  sparkle,  nature  greets 
The  adoring  gaze,  alone  is  reared  thy  shrine : — 

Lips  cling  to  lips — the  full  heart  fondly  beats — 
From  Ajut's  icy  regions  to  the  Line — 

Roam  where  we  may,  thy  rapt  emotions  start, 

The  bliss  to  meet ! — the  agony  to  part !          J.  G.  G. 


18* 


210  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  NORTHERN   STAR. 

WRITTEN    AT    TYNEMOUTH,    NORTHUMBERL A.ND. 

1  THE  Northern  Star 
Sailed  o'er  the  Bar, 

Bound  to  the  Baltic  Sea: 
In  the  morning  gray 
She  stretched  away — 

'Twas  a  weary  day  to  me. 

*  And  many  an  hour, 
In  sleet  and  shower, 

By  the  light-house  rock  I  stray, 
And  watch  till  dark 
For  the  winged  bark 

Of  him  that's  far  way. 

'The  Church-yard's  bound 
I  wander  round, 

Among  the  grassy  graves  ; 
But  all  I  hear 
Is  the  North  wind  drear, 

And  all  I  see,  the  waves  !' 

Oh  roam  not  there, 
Thou  mourner  fair, 

Nor  pour  the  fruitless  tear  ! 
Thy  plaint  of  wo 
Is  all  too  low — 

The  dead,  they  cannot  hear. 

The  Northern  Star 

Is  set  afar, 

Set  in  the  raging  sea  ; 

And  the  billows  spread 
O'er  the  sandy  bed, 
That  holds  thy  love  from  thee ! 
Newcastle  Courant. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


211 


THE  INCOGNITA. 

WRITTEN     UNDER     THE    PORTRAIT     OF    AN     UNKNOWN 
LADY. 

UPON  her  cheek  the  eye  may  trace 

The  lineaments  of  heavenly  grace  ; 

A  tender  blush  of  rosy  light, 

That  wins  and  then  detains  the  sight. 

It  is  not  brilliant ; — no,  nor  gay  ; — 

It  is  not  pleasure's  dazzling  ray  ; — 

It  does  not  wildly  flash  and  burn, 

Like  rich  wines  in  a  sparry  bowl  ; 

But  softly  beams  and  shines,  as  roll 

Sweet  waters  from  a  crystal  urn. 

It  makes,  albeit  he  strive,  in  vain, 

The  gazer  turn  to  gaze  again. 

It  seems  to  speak  in  pensive  tone, 

Of  childhood's  happier  moments  flown  ; 

Of  loss  of  hopes  too  dearly  prized, 

Dreams  of  delight  unrealized, 

And  all  the  warring  fears  that  wring 

A  woman's  heart  in  love's  first  spring  ! 

On  her  smooth  brow  her  chestnut  hair 

Descends,  and  makes  a  twilight  there! 

As  softly  shadowed  and  as  sweet, 

As  that  when  light  and  darkness  meet. 

On  that  pure  tablet  Grief  hath  laid 

Her  hand,  but  not  one  furrow  made  ; 

On  that  unsullied  page  as  yet, 

No  impress  of  her  seal  is  set. 

From  those  rich  tresses  to  the  view 

That  dark  eye  takes  a  darker  hue  ; 

Full — glassy — brilliant — there  the  mind 

Sits  like  a  Deity  enshrined  ; 

Within  its  pupil  works  a  spell 

Which  fills  the  rnind,  we  know  not  why, 


212  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

With  scenes  on  which  our  thoughts  would  dwell 
Of  vanished  hours  of — bliss  gone  by. 
We  gaze  and  grieve,  and  still  we  gaze, 
Upon  that  soul-appealing  token  ; 
And  mourn,  that  Time  can  never  raise 
One  flower  like  that  his  touch  has  broken. 
Leeds  Intelligencer.  B.  B.  W. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY  RESTING  ON  A  SKULL. 

BY    MRS.    HEMAJSS. 

CREATURE  of  air  and  light! 
Emblem  of  that  which  may  not  fade  or  die, 

Wilt  thoti  not  speed  tliy  flight 
To  chase  the  south-wind  through  the  sunny  sky  ? 

What  lures  thee  thus  to  stay 

With  Silence  and  Decay, 
Fixed  on  the  wreck  of  dull  Mortality  ? 

The  thoughts  once  chambered  there, 
Have  gathered  up  their  treasures,  and  are  gone  ! 

Will  the  dust  tell  us  where 
They  that  have  burst  the  prison-house  are  flown  ? 

Rise,  nursling  of  the  Day, 

If  thou  wouldst  trace  their  way  ! — 
Earth  has  no  voice  to  make  the  secret  known. 

Who  seeks  the  vanished  bird, 
By  the  forsaken  nest  and  broken  shell  ? 

Far  thence,  he  sings  unheard, 
Yet  free  and  joyous  'midst  the  woods  to  dwell. 

Thou,  of  the  sunshine  born, 

Take  the  bright  wings  of  morn  ! — 
Thy  hope  calls  heavenward  from  yon  ruined  cell. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

WHERE  IS  HE  ? 

BY    HENRY    NEELE,    ESQ. 

*  Man  giveth  up  the  ghost,  and  where  is  he  ?' 

"  AND  where  is  he  ?"     Not  by  the  side 

Of  her  whose  wants  he  loved  to  tend  ; 
Not  o'er  those  valleys  wandering  wide, 

Where,  sweetly  lost,  he  oft  would  wend  ! 
That  form  beloved  he  marks  no  more  ; 

Those  scenes  admired  no  more  shall  see  ; — 
Those  scenes  are  lovely  as  before, 

And  she  as  fair, — but  where  is  he  ? 

No,  no,  the  radiance  is  not  dim, 

That  used  to  gild  his  favourite  hill ; 
The  pleasures  that  were  dear  to  him, 

Are  dear  to  life  and  nature  still ; 
But,  ah  !  his  home  is  not  as  fair, 

Neglected  must  his  garden  be, 
The  lilies  droop  and  wither  there, 

And  seem  to  whisper,  where  is  he  ?' 

His  was  the  pomp,  the  crowded  hall ! 

But  where  is  now  the  proud  display  ? 
His — riches,  honours,  pleasures,  all 

Desire  could  frame  ; — but  where  are  they  ? 
And  he,  as  some  tall  rock  that  stands 

Protected  by  the  circling  sea, 
Surrounded  by  admiring  bands, 

Seemed  proudly  strong, — and  where  is  he  ? 

The  church-yard  bears  an  added  stone, 

The  fire-side  shows  a  vacant  chair ; 
Here  sadness  dwells,  and  weeps  alone, 

And  death  displays  his  banner  there  ; 
The  life  has  gone,  the  breath  has  fled, 

And  what  has  been,  no  more  shall  be; 
The  well-known  form,  the  welcome  tread, 

O  where  are  they,  and  where  is  he  ? 
New  European  Magazine. 


213 


214  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  LEAGUE. 


Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are  1 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  .Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  oh  pleasant  land 

of  France  ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war, 
Hurrah  I  hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  JNavarre. 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  AppenzeTs  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land  ! 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in   the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand  ; 
And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  has  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armour  drest, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye  ; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  '  God  save  our  Lord  the 

King.' 

1  An  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may, — 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, — 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre.' 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !     Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


215 


The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 
"With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now, — upon  them  with  the  lance  ! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest ; 
And  in  they  hurst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  .Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours!  Mayeune  hath  turned  his 

rein. 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.     The  Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,and  flags,and  cloven  mail; 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van, 
*  Remember  St.  Bartholomew,'  was  passed  from  man  to  man; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  '  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe  : 
Down,  down,  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go.' 
Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre  ! 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  !  Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return. 

Ho  !   Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp's  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 

•  souls  ! 

Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright  ! 
Ho  !  burghers  of  Saint  Gf-nevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night! 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant, our  God  hath  raised  the  slave, 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valour  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are  ; 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 
Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine.  T.  M. 


216  THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

STANZAS. 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 

OH  !  had  my  fate  been  joined  with  thine 
As  once  this  pledge  appeared  a  token  ; 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

To  thee  these  early  faults  [  owe, 

To  thee — the  wise  and  old  reproving: — 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 

For,  once,  my  soul  like  thine  was  pure, 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother  ; 

But,  now,  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestowed  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps,  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 
And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him  ; 

Yet,  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 

For  thy  dear  sake  J  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah  !  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 
My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alas  !  to  find  in  many. 

Then,  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid, 

'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee  ; 

Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid  ; 
But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, — 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures, — 

These  varied  loves, — these  matron  fears, — 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  Passion's  measures. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  217 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hushed  ; 

This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 
With  Passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flushed, 

But  bloomed  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, — 
For  Nature  seemed  to  smile  before  thee  ; 

And  once  my  breast  abhorred  deceit, — 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But,  now,  I  seek  for  other  joys ; — 

To  think,  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness  ! — * 

In  thoughtless  throngs,  and  empty  noise, 
I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these,  a  thought  will  steal, 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour  ; 
And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, 

To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 
Hours  of  Idleness. 


RECONCILEMENT. 

ALTHOUGH  the  tear-drop  gliding 
Makes  thee  lovelier  than  before, 

Yet  weep  not  at  my  chiding, — 
I'll  never  chide  thee  more. 

Let  thy  lip  no  longer  quiver, 
Let  thy  bosom's  heaving  cease, 

Though  they  lend  more  bliss  than  ever 
To  the  long,  long  kiss  of  peace. 

Could  my  lips  with  scorn  deceive  thee, 

I  might  boast  our  broken  tie  ; 
But  to  lose  thee,  and  to  leav  e  thee, 
Were  to  part  with  peace  and  die. 
A*eu>  Monthly  Magazine. 
19 


218  THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

THE  LOT  OF  THOUSANDS. 

BY    MRS.    JOHN    HUNTER. 

How  many  lift  the  head,  look  gay,  and  smile, 
Against  their  consciences. 

WHEN  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart, 
By  secret  sorrow  close  concealed, 

We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart, 
What  must  not  be  revealed. 

'Tis  hard  to  smile,  when  one  could  weep  ; 

To  speak,  \vhen  one  would  silent  be ; 
To  wake,  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep, 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast, 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 

And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast, 
To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  Nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet, 

Where  disappointment  cannot  come ; 
And  Time  guides  with  unerring  feet, 

The  wearied  wanderer  home. 
Constable' s  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


COMPARISON. 

BY    R.    B.    SHERIDAN,    ESQ. 

MARKED  you  her  cheek  of  roseate  hue  ! 
Marked  you  her  eye  of  radiant  blue  ! 
That  eye  in  liquid  circles  moving, 
That  cheek  abashed  at  man's  approving, 
The  one  Love's  arrows  darting  round, 
The  other  blushing  at  the  wound  ': 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  219 


A  POETICAL  SKETCH. 

THERE  is  a  feeling  in  his  heart, 

A  feeling,  which  it  well  might  spare, 
That  will  not  break  it  and  depart, 

But  ever  dwells  and  rankles  there  : — 
Nor  music,  mirth,  nor  rosy  wine, — 
Friendship,  nor  woman's  smiles  divine, 

Nor  sanctity  of  prayer, — 
Nor  aught  that  holy  men  may  say, 
Can  scare  that  ravening  fiend  away  ! 

A  sickness  of  the  soul,  the  balm 

Of  Hope  can  neither  soothe  nor  slake  ; — 
A  serpent  that  no  spell  can  charm, 

With  eye  eternally  awake  ; — 
A  glance  of  fire,  a  tongue  of  flame, 
That  Time  can  neither  tire  nor  tame, 

Nor  music's  voice  disarm  ; — 
A  living  sense  of  lasting  wo, 
That  poisons  every  bliss  below  ! 

It  was  not  always  thus. — He  danced 

The  earlier  hours  of  life  away, 
And  snatched  at  joy  where'er  it  chanced 

To  blossom  on  his  lonely  way  ! 
Then  Hope  was  young,  and  bright,  and  fair, — 
He  knew  nor  wo  nor  wasting  care, 

But,  innocently  gay, 

Deemed — reckless  of  the  debt  it  owed — 
'Twould  always  flow  as  then  it  flowed  ! 

As  Childhood  ripened  into  Youth, 

Those  feelings  fled  : — he  drank  the  springs 

Of  Knowledge,  and  the  source  of  Truth, 
(What  the  sage  writes  the  poet  sings) 

And  read  in  Nature's  varying  forms, 

Her  shifting  shades  of  sun  and  storms. 


220  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Unutterable  things,— 
And  wrought,  unweariedly,  to  cull 
All  that  was  wild  and  wonderful ! 

But  even  then,  at  times,  would  roll, 
Unbidden  and  profoundly  deep, 

An  awful  silence  o'er  his  soul 

That  hushed  all  other  sense  to  sleep  ; 

And  then  he  saw,  too  near,  the  springs 

And  wild  realities  of  things, 
And  only  waked  to  weep 

That  man  should  be  cut  off  from  bliss, 

And  exiled  to  a  world  like  this  ! 

He  loved— I  will  not  say  how  true — 

The  faithless  tongue  perchance  might  lie;- 
He  did  not  love  as  others  do, 

Nor  cringe,  nor  flatter,  whine  nor  sigh  ! 
Look  on  his  inmost  heart,  and  trace, 
What  time  may  deepen,  not  efface, 

So  firmly  wrought  the  die 
That  did  her  lovely  image  bear, 
And  warm  and  glowing  stamp  it  there. 

His  hopes  were  crushed  ; — he  strove  to  hide 

The  past,  by  mingling  with  mankind ; 
And  left  the  maid  he  deified 

Idols  elsewhere  to  find. 
Now,  from  Love's  sanctuary  hurled, 
He  roves  an  outcast  through  the  world, 

Nor  evermore  may  find — 
Wreck  of  the  past — his  future  stay-~ 
The  bonds  that  have  been  wrenched  away ! 

He  stands  as  stands  a  ruined  Tower 
Which  Time  in  triumph  desolates  ; 

The  ivy  wreath  that  scorns  his  power, 
A  melancholy  gloom  creates. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  221 

What  though  it  shine  in  light  while  yet 
The  summer  suns — its  fibres  fret 

The  stone  it  decorates  ; — 
So,  smiles  upon  his  pallid  brow 
But  wring  the  ruined  heart  below  ! 

B.  B.  W. 


SUNSET  THOUGHTS. 


How  beautiful  the  setting  sun  reposes  o'er  the  wave  1 
Like  Virtue,  life's  drear  warfare  done,  descending  to  the  grave  ; 
Yet  smiling  with  a  brow  of  love,  benignant,  pure  and  kind, 
And  blessing,  ere  she  soars  above  the  realms  she  leaves  behind. 

The  cloudlets,  edged  with  crimson  light,  veil  o'er  the  blue  serene, 
"While  swift  the  legions  of  the  night,  are  shadowing  o'er  the  scene  ; 
The  sea-gull,  with  a  wailing  moan,  up  starting,  turns  to  seek 
Its  lonely  dwelling-place,  upon  the  promontory's  peak. 

The  heaving  sea, — the  distant  hill,— the  waning  sky,--lhe  woods — 
With  melancholy  musing  fill  the  swelling  heart  that  broods 
Upon  the  light  of  other  days,  whose  glories  now  are  dull, 
And  on  the  visions  Hope  could  raise,  vacant,  but  beautiful  I 

Where  are  the  bright  illusions  vain,  that  fancy  boded  forth  ! 

Sunk  to  their  silent  caves  again,  Aurorae  of  the  North  ? 

Oh  !  who  would  live  those  visions  o'er,  all  brilliant  though  they 

seem, 

Since  Earth  is  but  a  desert  shore,  and  Life  a  weary  dream  I 
Blackwood's  Magazine.  A 


222  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THERE  IS  A  TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF. 

THERE  is  a  tongue  in  every  leaf,  — 

A  voice  in  every  rill  ;  — 
A  voice  that  speaketh  every  where, 
In  flood  and  fire,  through  earth  and  air  ! 

A  tongue  that's  never  still  ! 


the  Great  Spirit,  wide  diffused 

Through  every  thing  we  see, 
That  with  our  spirits  communeth 
Of  things  mysterious  —  Life  and  Death, 

Time  and  Eternity  ! 

I  see  him  in  the  blazing  sun, 

And  in  the  thunder  cloud  ; 
I  hear  Him  in  the  mighty  roar 
That  rusheth  through  the  forests  hoar, 

When  winds  are  piping  loud. 

I  see  Him,  hear  Him,  every  where, 

In  all  things  —  darkness,  light, 
Silence  and  sound  ;  but,  most  of  all, 
When  slumber's  dusky  curtains  fall, 

At  the  dead  hour  of  night. 

I  feel  Him  in  the  silent  dews, 

By  grateful  earth  betrayed  ; 
I  feel  Him  in  the  gentle  showers, 
The  soft  south  wind,  the  breath  of  flowers, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  shade. 

And  yet  (ungrateful  that  I  am  !) 

I've  turned  in  sullen  mood 
From  all  these  things,  whereof  He  said, 
When  the  great  whole  was  finished, 

That  they  were  «  very  good.' 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  223 

My  sadness  on  the  loveliest  things 

Fell  like  unwholesome  dew  ; — 
The  darkness  that  encompassed  me, 
The  gloom  I  felt  so  palpably, 

Mine  own  dark  spirit  threw. 

Yet  was  he  patient — slow  to  wrath, 

Though  every  day  provoked 
By  selfish,  pining  discontent, 
Acceptance  cold  or  negligent, 

And  promises  revoked ; 

And  still  the  same  rich  feast  was  spread 

For  my  insensate  heart ! — 
Not  always  so — I  woke  again, 
To  join  Creation's  rapturous  strain, 

1  O  Lord,  how  good  Thou  art !' 

The  clouds  drew  up,  the  shadows  fled, 

The  glorious  sun  broke  out, 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  gratitude, 
Dispelled  that  miserable  mood 

Of  darkness  and  of  doubt. 
BlackiDoodSs  Magazine.  C. 


FROM  THE   ARABIC. 

OH  !  ask  me  not — oh  !  task  me  not 

Her  monument  to  see, 
For  doubly  blest  is  there  the  rest, 

Which  never  comes  to  me. 

Oh  !  say  not  so — you  may  not  so 
All  powerful  Love  inhume  ; 

For  in  your  breast,  while  life's  a  guest, 
The  heart's  her  real  tomb. 


224  THE   POETICAL   ALBUM. 


STANZAS 

BY     LORD    BYRON. 

THERE  was  a  time  I  need  not  name, 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same, 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee  ! 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confessed  a  love,  which  equalled  mine, — 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown,  and  thus  uiifelt  by  thine, — 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this, — 
To  think  how  soon  that  love  hath  flown! 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss, 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone ! 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  late  I  heard  rhy  lips  declare, 

In  accents  once  imagined  true, — 
Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  !  my  adored!  yet  most  unkind  ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes!  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  thou  art,  or  e'er  shall  be, 
Thou  hast  been,  dearly,  solely,  mine  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  225 


MUSIC. 

OH  yes,  the  sounds  were  sweet  as  those 
That  die  away  at  Evening's  close, 
And  gentle  as  the  tones  that  fall 
From  waters  wildly  musical. 
But  Music  is  not  dear  to  me, 
It  wakes  too  much  of  memory  ; — 
There  is  a  spell  in  Music's  sigh 
That  breathes  too  much  of  days  gone  by  ; — 
The  silver  tone,  the  sweet  voiced  shell, 
To  me  are  as  the  sad  farewell 
Of  parting  lovers.     Music  wakes 
The  wildest  throbs,  and  Music  takes 
Each  shape  of  fancy  ;  but  it  brings 
Tg  me  the  shades  of  lovely  things 
Past,  and  for  ever, — hopes  deferred, 
Or,  like  the  song  of  the  spring  bird, 
Dying  when  sweetest.     Music's  sigh 
First  taught  me  love's  idolatry, 
Waked  my  young  heart  to  find  (too  late) 
It  might  be  left  all  desolate  ; 
To  curse  the  dream-like  life  before, 
To  love  the  once  loved  song  no  more  ; 
To  know,  hope,  genius,  spirit  fled, 
Soul-sickness,  feeling  withered  ! — 
Rather  be  mine  the  heartless  smile, 
A  flower  upon  the  lava  ;  while 
Beneath  its  flame  and  barrenness, 
The  colours  do  not  glow  the  less. 
I  bade  my  heart  once  be  my  world, 
And  dreamed  it  could  ;  but  I  was  hurled 
From  my  enchanted  pinnacle 
Of  hope,  of  joy,  of  trust,  to  dwell 
Mid  those  stern  truths,  which  chilled  that  heart ; 
«  And  bade  youth's  fairy  lights  depart. 
And  Music  has  to  me  a  tone 
Sacred  to  thoughts,  to  feelings  gone, 


226  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

When  love  was  faith,  or  ere  I  knew 
Its  altar  frail,  its  sigh  untrue, — 
That  it  was  like  the  hues  that  spring 
Upon  the  rainbow's  wandering. 
But,  now,  those  feelings  cannot  be  ; — 
Their  echo  is  too  sad  for  me ; 
For  what  can  Music  breathe  me  now  ? — 
The  blighted  hope,  the  broken  vow  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


SONNET, 

ON    CONTEMPLATING    THE    MINIATURE     OF    A    DECEASED 
TRIEND. 

YES  !  I  have  felt  of  life  that  weariness 
Which  will,  at  times,  steal  o'er  a  hapless  few, 
Crushing  all  hopes  of  bliss  ; — but,  while  I  press 
Thine  image  to  my  heart,  I  can  review 
My  sad  career  with  smiles,  to  think  how  true 
To  friendship  thou  did'st  prove,  even  in  the  hour 
When  darkest  frowned  my  fate,  and  fiercest  blew 
Misfortune's  bitter  storm  !  I  lack  the  power 
To  thank  thee  as  I  wish. — Peace  to  thy  shade  ! 
Thou  died'st  at  distance  from  me,  and  thy  grave 
Rises  on  foreign  shores  ; — yet,  oft  conveyed 
Thither  in  Fancy's  magic  car,  I  lave 
With  burning  tears  the  spot,  and  sighing,  say, — 
Would  with  thy  life  mine  own  had  passed  away  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM  227 

YOUTH. 

*  There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give,  like  that  it  takes  away.' 

OH  Youth  !  in  such  a  world  as  this, 

Why  doth  thy  morning-ray, 
Thy  pure  and  '  natural  blessedness,' 

So  early  fade  away  ? 
That  lustre  of  the  cloudless  soul, 

Seen  dawning  in  thine  eye  ; 
Those  thoughts  that  spring  without  control, 

As  young  birds  flutter  by  ; 
Hopes,  that  bloorn  like  flowers  unhid, 

And  dew-drop  tears,  that  leave  no  stain; — 
Emotions,  not  a  moment  hid, 

And  joy,  without  its  after  pain  ; 
And  guilelessness,  faith,  fervour,  all, 

Like  the  blossoms  in  the  wind  ; 
Why  fall ! — or  leave  not  ivhen  they  fall, 

Maturing  fruit  behind  ? 

Oh  Manhood  !  with  the  busy  brow  ! 

Age  !  with  the  '  world-worn'  heart ! 
Where  rests  Remembrance  oftenest  now, 

Reviewing  life's  past  part  ? 
Say,  on  ambition's  proudest  hour? 

Fame's,  fortune's  hard- won  steep  ? 
On  the  wild  stir  of  this  world's  power, 

That  dark,  unfathomed  deep, 
Where  human  passions,  human  pride, 

To  fury  lash  its  form, 
Till  peace,  hope,  virtue,  all  allied, 

Sink  helpless  in  the  storm  ? 
Beyond  these  scenes, — beyond,  how  far  ! — 

Their  memories  both  will  Turn 
To  those  which,  distant  as  a  star, — 

As  rudiant  too, — still  burn. 


228  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Each  eye  will  turn  to  Childhood's  years, 

*  Each  heart  be  inly  stirred, 

'  And  the  same  sounds  be  in  his  ears, 

*  As  in  those  days  he  heard  ;' 

While  simple  feelings,  guileless  thought, 

Affections,  long  grown  dim, 
Return,  with  all  the  freshness  fraught, 

They  bore  in  youth  for  him. 
First  friendships  rising  on  his  soul, 

As  once  they  rose  before  ; 
Then  shed  awhile  the  sweet  control 

They  now  can  shed  no  more  ! 
And  so  will  manhood's  brow  be  calm, 

And  age's  heart  be  light ; 
For  these  are  memories  '  breathing  balm  ;* 

These,  memories  ever  bright. 

Oh  Youth !  thou  spring  of  human  life, 

First,  fairest  of  our  dreams  ! 
How  lovely,  'midst  this  world's  dire  strife, 

Thy  rainbow-beauty,  seems ! 
The  unworn  soul,  all  dewy-bright, 

And  opening  like  a  flower  ! 
But  ah !  it  droops  and  closes  quite, 

In  age's  evening  hour  ! 
Frail,  fair  possession  ! — Yet  I  know 

Thy  frailty  wisely  given  ; — 
For  beings  always  young  below, 

Would  never  seek  for  heaven  !  M.  J.  J. 


A  FAREWELL. 

IF  e'er  by  words  can  be  expressed 

The  mind  of  man  when  broken  hearted, 

Or  sighs  or  tears  console  the  breast 
From  what  it  loves  for  ever  parted  ; 

Then  every  grief  I  have  to  tell, 

'Mid  sighs  just  breathed  and  tears  just  started, 

Head  thou  in  this  wild  word  Farewell  ! 


THE     POETICAL    ALBUM.  229 

DUTY  AND  PLEASURE. 

BY    MRS.    PIOZZI. 

DUTY  and  Pleasure,  long  at  strife, 
Crossed  in  the  common  walks  of  life ; — 

*  Pray  don't  disturb  me,  get  you  gone,' 
Cries  Duty,  with  a  serious  tone  : 
Then,  with  a  smile  ;  « keep  off,  my  dear, 
Nor  force  me  thus  to  be  severe.' 

*  Dear  Sir,'  cries  Pleasure,  '  you're  so  grave  ; 
You  make  yourself  a  perfect  slave  : 

I  can't  think  why  we  disagree  ; 

You  may  turn  Methodist  for  me  : 

But,  if  you'll  neither  laugh  nor  play, 

At  least  don't  stop  me  on  my  way  ; 

Yet  sure  one  moment  you  might  steal, 

To  see  the  lovely  Miss  O'Neil : 

One  hour  to  relaxation  give  ; 

Oh  !  lend  one  hour  from  life — to  live  ! 

And  here's  a  bird,  and  there's  a  flower  ; — 

Dear  Duty,  walk  a  little  slower.' 

1  My  morning's  task  is  not  half  done,' 
Cries  Duty  with  an  inward  groan  ; 
'  False  colours  on  each  object  spread, 
I  know  not  whence,  or  where,  I'm  led ! 
Your  boasted  Pleasures  mount  the  wind, 
And  leave  their  venomed  stings  behind. 
Where  are  you  flown  ?' — Voices  around 
Cry,  *  Pleasure  long  hath  left  this  ground  ; 
Old  Age  advances  ;  haste  away  ! 
Nor  lose  the  light  of  parting  day. 
See  Sickness  follows  ;   Sorrow  threats  ;— 
Waste  no  more  time  in  vain  regrets  : — 
O  Duty  !  one  more  effort  given 
May  reach  perhaps  the  gates  of  heaven, 
Where,  only,  each  with  each  delighted, 
Pleasure  and  Duty  live  united  !' 
Literani  Gazette. 

20 


230  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

ELLEN ! 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Is  she  not  beautiful,  although  so  pale  ? 
The  first  May  flowers  are  not  more  colourless 
Than  her  white  cheek  ;   yet  I  recall  the  time 
When  she  was  called  the  rosebud  of  our  village. 
There  was  a  blush,  half  modesty,  half  health, 
Upon  her  cheek,  fresh  as  the  summer  morn 
With  which  she  rose  ; — a  cloud  of  chestnut  curls, 
Like  twilight,  darkened  o'er  her  blue-veined  brow  ; 
And  through  their  hazel  curtains,  eyes,  whose  light 
Was  like  the  violet's,  when  April  skies 
Have  given  their  own  pure  colour  to  the  leaves, 
Shone  sweet  arid  silent,  as  the  twilight  star. 
And  she  was  happy  : — innocence  and  hope 
Make  the  young  heart  a  paradise  for  love. 
And  she  was  loved,  and  loved.     The  youth  was  one 
That  dwelled  on  the  waters.     He  had  been 
Where  sweeps  the  blue  Atlantic,  a  wide  world  ; — 
Had  seen  the  sun  light  up  the  flowers,  like  gems, 
In  the  bright  Indian  isles  ; — had  breathed  the  air 
When  sweet  with  cinnamon,  and  gum,  and  spice. 
But  he  said  that  no  air  brought  health,  or  balm, 
Like  that  on  his  own  hills,  when  it  had  swept 
O'er  orchards  in  their  bloom,  or  hedges,  where 
Blossomed  the  hawthorn  and  the  honeysuckle  ; 
That,  but  one  voyage  more,  and  he  would  come 
To  his  dear  Ellen  and  her  cottage  home — 
Dwell  there  in  love  and  peace.     And  then  he  kissed 
Her  tears  away,  talked  of  the  pleasant  years 
Which  they  should  pass  together — of  the  pride 
He  would  take  in  his  constancy.     Oh,  hope 
Is  very  eloquent !  and  as  the  hours 
Passed  by  their  fireside  in  calm  cheerfulness, 
Ellen  forgot  to  weep. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  231 

At  length  the  time 

Of  parting  came  ;  'twas  the  first  mouth  of  Spring  ; — 
Like  a  green  fan  spread  the  horse-chestnut's  leaves, 
A  shower  of  yellow  bloom  was  on  the  elm, 
The  daisies  shone  like  silver,  and  the  houghs 
Were  covered  with  their  blossoms,  and  the  sky 
Was  like  an  augury  of  hope,  so  clear, 
So  beautifully  blue.     Love  !  oh  young  love  ! 
Why  hast  thou  not  security  !     Thou  art 
Like  a  bright  river,  on  whose  course  the  weeds 
Are  thick  and  heavy :  briars  are  on  its  banks, 
And  jagged  stones  and  rocks  are  mid  its  waves. 
Conscious  of  its  own  beauty,  it  will  rush 
Over  its  many  obstacles,  and  pant 
For  some  green  valley,  as  its  quiet  home. 
Alas  !  either  it  rushes  with  a  desperate  leap 
Over  its  barriers,  foaming  passionate, 
But  prisoned  still  ;  or,  winding  languidly, 
Becomes  dark,  like  oblivion  ;  or,  else  wastes 
Itself  away. — This  is  love's  history. 

They  parted  one  spring  evening;  the  green  sea 
Had  scarce  a  curl  upon  its  wave  ;  the  ship 
Rode  like  a  queen  of  ocean.     Ellen  wept, 
But  not  disconsolate,  for  she  had  hope  : — 
She  knew  not  then  the  bitterness  of  tears. 
But  night  closed  in,  and  with  the  night  there  came 
Tempest  upon  the  wind  ;  the  beacon  light 
Glared  like  a  funeral  pile  ;  all  else  was  black 
And  terrible  as  death.     We  heard  a  sound 
Come  from  the  ocean  : — one  lone  signal  gun, 
Asking  for  help  in  vain — followed  by  shrieks, 
Mocked  by  the  ravening  gale  ;  then  deepest  silence. 
Some  gallant  souls  had  perished.     With  the  first 
Dim  light  of  morn,  they  sought  the  beach  ;  and  there 
Lay  fragments  of  a  ship,  and  human  shapes, 
Ghastly  and  gashed.     But  the  worst  sight  of  all — 
The  sight  of  living  misery  met  their  gaze. 
Seated  upon  a  rock,  drenched  by  the  rain, 


232  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM. 

Her  hair  torn  by  the  wind,  there  Ellen  sat, 
Pale,  motionless.     How  could  love  guide  her  there  ? 
A  corpse  lay  by  her  ;  in  her  arms  its  head 
Found  a  fond  pillow,  and  o'er  it  she  watched, 
As  the  young  mother  watches  her  first  child. — 
It  was  her  lover. — 
Ackermari's  '  Forget  me  not.1  L.  E.  L. 


SONG, 

OF    A    GERMAN   TROBADOUR.* 
TRANSLATED   BY  W.   ROSCOE,   ESft. 

THERE  sat  upon  the  linden  tree 

A  bird,  and  sang  its  strain  ; 
So  sweet  it  sang,  that  as  I  heard 

My  heart  went  back  again. 
It  went  to  one  remembered  spot, 

It  saw  the  rose-trees  grow, 
And  thought  again  the  thoughts  of  love, 

There  cherished  long  ago. 

A  thousand  years  to  one  it  seems, 

Since  by  my  fair  I  sat ; 
Yet  thus  to  be  a  stranger  long, 

Is  not  my  choice,  but  fate  ; 
Since  then  I  have  not  seen  the  flowers, 

Nor  heard  the  bird's  sweet  song  : 
My  joys  have  all  too  briefly  past, 

My  griefs  been  all  to  long. 

*  From  Mr.  T.  Roscoe's  Translation  of  Sismondi's  Literature 
of  the  South  of  Europe, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  233 


THE  BACHELOR'S  DREAM. 

THE  music  ceased,  the  last  quadrille  was  o'er, 
And  one  by  one  the  waning  beauties  fled  ; 

The  garlands  vanished  from  the  frescoed  floor, 
The  nodding  fiddler  hung  his  weary  head. 

And  I — a  melancholy  single  man — 

Retired  to  mourn  my  solitary  fate. — 
I  slept  awhile  ;  but  o'er  my  slumbers  ran 

The  sylph  like  image  of  my  blooming  Kate. 

I  dreamt  of  mutual  love,  and  Hymen's  joys, 
Of  happy  moments  and  connubial  blisses ; 

And  then  I  thought  of  little  girls  and  boys, 
The  mother's  glances,  and  the  infant's  kisses. 

I  saw  them  all,  in  sweet  perspective  sitting 
In  winter's  eve  around  a  blazing  fire, 

The  children  playing  and  the  mother  knitting, 
Or  fondly  gazing  on  the  happy  Sire. 

The  scene  was  changed. — In  came  the  Baker's  bill : 
I  stared  to  see  the  hideous  consummation 

Of  pies  and  puddings  that  it  took  to  fill 
The  bejlies  of  the  rising  generation. 

There  was  no  end  to  eating  : — legs  of  mutton 
Were  vanquished  daily  by  this  little  host ; 

To  see  them,  you'd  have  thought  each  tiny  glutton 
Had  laid  a  wager  who  could  eat  the  most. 

The  massy  pudding  smoked  upon  the  platter, 
The  ponderous  sirloin  reared  its  head  in  vain  ; — 

The  little  urchins  kicked  up  such  a  clatter, 
That  scarce  a  remnant  e'er  appeared  again. 

Then  came  the  School  bill : — Board  and  Education 
So  much  per  annum  ;  but  the  extras  mounted 
20* 


234  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

To  nearly  twice  the  primal  stipulation, 
And  every  little  bagatelle  was  counted  ! 

To  mending  tuck  ; — A  new  Homeri  Ilias  ;— 

A  pane  of  glass  ; — Repairing  coat  and  breeches  ; — 

A  slate  and  pencil ;— Binding  old  Virgilius ; — 
Drawing  a  tooth  ;— An  open  draught  and  leeches. 

And  now  I  languished  for  the  single  state, 

The  social  glass,  the  horse  and  chaise  on  Sunday, 

The  jaunt  to  Windsor  with  my  sweetheart  Kate, 
And  cursed  again  the  weekly  bills  of  Monday. 

Here  Kate  began  to  scold, — I  stampt  and  swore, 
The  kittens  squeak,  the  children  loudly  scream  ; 

And  tiuis  awaking  with  the  wild  uproar, 
I  thanked  my  stars  that  it  was  but  a  dream. 
Literary  Gazette. 


TIME'S   SWIFTNESS. 

BY    THE    HON.    R.    W.    SPENCER. 

Too  late  I  staid ; — forgive  the  crime, — 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers  ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbings  of  the  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

Which  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Oh  !  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  fleetness  brings, 

When  Birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  235 

LINES, 

WRITTEN    BENEATH    A    BUST    OF    SHAK5PEARE. 
BY    HENRY    NEELE,    ESQ.. 

His  was  the  master-spirit ; — at  his  spells 

The  heart  gave  up  its  secrets  ; — like  the  mount 

Of  Horeb,  smitten  by  the  Prophet's  rod, 

Its  hidden  springs  gushed  forth.     Time,  that  gray  rock 

On  whose  bleak  sides  the  fame  of  meaner  bards 

Is  dashed  to  ruin,  was  the  pedestal 

On  which  his  genius  rose ;  and,  rooted  there, 

Stands  like  a  mighty  statue,  reared  so  high 

Above  the  clouds  and  changes  of  the  world, 

That  heaven's  unshorn  and  unimpeded  beams 

Have  round  its  awful  brows  a  glory  shed, 

Immortal  as  their  own.     Like  those  fair  birds 

Of  glittering  plumage,  whose  heaven-pointing  pinions 

Beam  light  on  that  dim  world  they  leave  behind, 

Arid  while  they  spurn,  adorn  it  ;*  so  his  spirit, 

His  '  dainty  spirit'  while  it  soared  above 

This  dull,  gross  compound,  scattered  as  it  flew 

Treasures  of  light  and  loveliness. 

And  these 

Were  *  gentle  Shakspeare's'  features  !— This  the  eye 
Whence  Earth's  least  earthly  mind  looked  out  arid  flash- 
Amazement  on  the  nations  !— This  the  brow  [ed 
Where  lofty  thought  majestically  brooded, 
Seated  as  on  a  throne  !  And  these  the  lips 

*  In  some  parts  of  America,  it  is  said,  there  are  birds  which, 
when  on  the  wing,  at  night,  emit  so  surprising  a  brightness,  that 
it  is  no  mean  substitute  for  the  light  of  da}'.  Among  the  whim- 
sical speculations  on  Fontelle,  is  one,  that  in  the  Planet  Mars, 
the  want  of  the  moon  may  be  compensated  by  a  multiplicity  of 
these  luminary  aeronauts. 


236  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

That  warbled  music  stolen  from  heaven's  own  choir 
When  seraph  harps  rang  sweetest!     But  I  tempt 
A  theme  too  high,  and  mount  like  Icarus, 
On  wings  that  melt  before  the  blaze  they  worship. 
Alas !  my  hand  is  weak,  my  lyre  is  wild ! 
Else  should  the  eye,  whose  wondering  gaze  is  fixed 
Upon  this  breathing  bust,  awaken  strains 
Lofty  as  those  the  glance  of  Phoebus  struck 
From  Memnon's  ruined  statue  ;  the  rapt  soul 
Should  breathe  in  numbers,  and  in  dulcet  notes, 
'  Discourse  most  eloquent  music.' 
Liter wy  Gazette. 


SONNET. 

BY    CHARLES    LAMB,    ESQ. 

THEY  talk  of  time,  and  of  time's  galling  yoke, 
That  like  a  mill-stone  on  man's  mind  doth  press, 
Which  only  works  and  business  can  redress  : 
Of  divine  leisure  such  foul  lies  are  spoke, 
Wounding  her  fair  gifts  with  calumnious  stroke. 
But  might  I,  fed  with  silent  meditation, 
Assoiled  live  from  that  fiend  Occupation — 
Improbus  labour,  which  my  spirits  hath  broke — 
I'd  drink  of  time's  rich  cup  and  never  surfeit, 
Fling  in  more  days  than  went  to  make  the  gem 
That  crowned  the  white-top  of  Methusalem, 
Yea,  on  my  wreak  neck  take,  and  never  forfeit, 
Like  Atlas  bearing  up  the  dainty  sky, 
The  heaven-sweet  burthen  of  eternity. 
London  Magazine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  237 

THE   DAISY   IN  INDIA. 

Supposed  to  be  addressed  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carey,  the  learned 
and  illustrious  Baptist  Missionary  at  Serampore,  to  the  first 
plant  of  this  kind,  which  sprang  up,  unexpectedly,  in  his  gar- 
den, out  of  some  English  earth,  in  which  other  seeds  had  been 
conveyed  to  him  from  this  country.  The  subject  was  suggest- 
ed by  reading  a  letter  from  Dr.  Carey  to  a  botanical  friend  in 
England. 

BY    JAMES     MONTGOMERY,    ESQ. 

THRICE  welcome  !  little  English  Flower ! 

My  mother-country's  white  and  red, 
In  rose  or  lily,  till  this  hour, 

Never  to  me  such  beauty  spread  ! 
Transplanted  from  thine  island-bed, 

A  treasure  in  a  grain  of  earth, 
Strange  as  a  spirit  from  the  dead, 

Thine  embryo  sprang  to  birth. 

Thrice  welcome  little  English  Flower ! 

Whose  tribes  beneath  our  natal  skies 
Shut  close  their  leaves  while  vapours  lower ; 

But  when  the  sun's  gay  beams  arise, 
With  unbashed  but  modest  eyes 

Follow  his  motion  to  the  west, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  till  daylight  dies, 

Then  fold  themselves  to  rest. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  Flower  ! 

To  this  resplendent  hemisphere, 
Where  Flora's  giant-offspring  tower 

In  gorgeous  liveries  all  the  year : 
Thou,  only  Thou,  art  little  here, 

Like  worth  unfriended  or  unknown, 
Yet  to  my  British  heart  more  dear 

Than  all  the  torrid  zone  ! 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  Flower  ! 
Of  early  scenes  beloved  by  me, 


238  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

While  happy  in  my  father's  bower, 
Thou  shall  the  blithe  memorial  be  ! 

The  fairy  sports  of  infancy, 

Youth's  golden  age,  and  manhood's  prime, 

Home,  country,  kindred,  friends, — with  thee 
Are  mine  in  this  far  clime. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  Flower! 

I'll  rear  thee  with  a  trembling  hand  : 
O  for  the  April  sun  and  shower, 

The  sweet  May-dews  of  that  fair  land, 
Where  Daisies,  thick  as  starlight,  stand 

In  every  walk  ! — that  here  might  shoot 
Thy  scions,  and  thy  buds  expand, 

A  hundred  from  one  root ! 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  Flower  ! 

To  me  the  pledge  of  Hope  unseen  ! 
When  sorrow  would  my  soul  o'erpower 

For  joys  that  were,  or  might  have  been, 
I'll  call  to  mind,  how — fresh  and  green, 

I  saw  thee  waking  from  the  dust, — 
Then  turn  to  heaven  with  brow  serene, 

And  place  in  God  my  trust. 
London  Magazine. 


SILENT   LOVE. 

OH,  I  could  whisper  thee  a  tale 
That  surely  would  thy  pity  move ; 

But  what  would  idle  words  avail 

Unless  the  heart  might  speak  its  love  ! 

To  tell  that  tale  my  pen  were  weak  ;  — 

My  tongue  its  office  too  denies  ; 
Then  mark  it  on  my  varying  cheek, 

And  read  it  in  my  languid  eyes  !  W. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE   CROSS   OF  THE   SOUTH. 

BY    MRS.    HEMANS. 

1  The  pleasure  we  felt  on  discovering  the  Southern  Cross,  was 
warmly  shared  by  such  of  the  crew  as  had  lived  in  the  colonies. 
In  the  solitude  of  the  seas,  we  hail  a  star,  as  a  friend  from  whom 
we  have  been  long  separated.  Among  the  Portuguese  and 
Spaniards,  peculiar  motives  seem  to  increase  this  feeling  :  a  re- 
ligious sentiment  attaches  them  to  a  constellation,  the  form  of 
which  recalls  the  sign  of  the  faith  planted  by  their  ancestors  in 
the  deserts  of  the  new  world.  The  two  great  stars,  which  mark 
the  summit  and  the  foot  of  the  cross,  having  nearly  the  same 
right  ascension,  it  follows  hence,  that  the  constellation  is  al- 
most perpendicular,  at  the  moment  when  it  passes  the  meridian. 
This  circumstance  is  known  to  every  nation  that  lives  beyond 
the  tropics,  or  in  the  southern  hemisphere.  It  has  been  observ- 
ed at  what  hour  of  the  night,  in  different  seasons,  the  cross  of 
the  south  is  erect  or  inclined.  It  is  a  time-piece  that  advances 
very  regularly  nearly  four  minutes  a  day,  and  no  other  group 
of  stars  exhibits,  to  the  naked  eye,  an  observation  of  time  so 
easily  made.  How  often  have  we  heard  our  guides  exclaim  in 
the  savannas  of  Venezuela,  or  in  the  desert  extending  from 
Lima  to  Truxillo,  '  midnight  is  past,  the  cross  begins  to  bend." 
DE  HUMBOLDT'S  TRAVELS. 

IN  the  silence  and  grandeur  of  midnight  1  tread, 
Where  savannas  in  boundless  magnificence  spread  ; 
And  bearing  sublimely  their  snow-wreaths  on  high, 
The  far  Cordilleras  unite  with  the  sky. 

The  Fern-tree  waves  o'er  me  ;  the  fire-fly's  red  light, 
With  its  quick-glancing  splendour  illumines  the  night ; 
And  I  read,  in  each  tint  of  the  skies  and  the  earth, 
How  distant  my  steps  from  the  land  of  my  birth. 

But  to  thee,  as  thy  lode-stars  resplendently  burn, 
In  their  clear  depths  of  blue,  with  devotion  I  turn, 
Bright  Cross  of  the  South  !  and  beholding  thee  shine, 
Scarce  regret  the  loved  land  of  the  Olive  and  Vine. 

Thou  recallest  the  ages  when  first  o'er  the  main, 
My  fathers  unfolded  the  streamer  of  Spain, 
And  planted  their  faith  in  the  regions  that  see 
Its  unperishing  symbol  emblazoned  in  thee. 


240  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

How  oft,  in  their  course  over  oceans  unknown, 
Where  all  was  mysterious  and  awfully  lone,          [deep 
Hath  their  spirit  been  cheered  by  thy  light,  when  the 
Reflected  its  brilliance,  in  tremulous  sleep ! 

As  the  vision  that  rose  to  the  Lord  of  the  world,* 
When  first  his  bright  banner  of  faith  was  unfurled  ; 
Even  such,  to  the  heroes  of  Spain,  when  their  prow 
Made  the  billows  the  path  of  their  glory,  wertthou  ! 

And  to  me,  as  I  traverse  the  world  of  the  west, 
Through  deserts  of  beauty,  in  stillness  that  rest, 
By  forests  and  rivers  untamed  in  their  pride, 
Thy  beams  have  a  language,  thy  course  is  a  guide. 

Shine  on  !  my  own  land  is  a  far  distant  spot, 
And  the  stars  of  thy  sphere  can  enlighten  it  not ; 
And  the  eyes,  which  I  love,  though  e'en  now  they  may  be 
O'er  the  firmament  wandering,  can  gaze  not  on  thee  ! 

But  thou  to  my  thoughts  art  a  pure  blazing  shrine, 
A  fount  of  bright  hopes  and  of  visions  divine  ; 
And  my  soul,  as  an  eagle  exulting  and  free, 
Soars  high  o'er  the  Andes,  to  mingle  with  thee ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


WITH  A  WHITE  ROSE, 

FROM     A     LOVER     OF     THE     HOUSE     OF     YORK     TO     HI3 
MISTRESS     OF     THE     HOUSE     OF     LANCASTER. 

IF  this  pale  rose  offend  thy  sight, 

Go  place  it  in  thy  bosom  fair, 
'Twill  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 

And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

*  Alluding  to  the  Vision  of  Constantine  the  Great. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  241 

STANZAS. 

BY    J.    H.    REYNOLDS,    ESQ. 

< And  muttered,  lost  I  lost!  lost  I' 

SIR   W.    SCOTT,    BART. 

'Tis  vain  to  grieve  for  what  is  past, 

The  golden  hours  are  gone  ; 

My  own  mad  hand  the  die  hath  cast, 

And  I  am  left  alone  : 

'Tis  vain  to  grieve — I  now  can  leave 

No  other  bliss— yet  still  I  grieve. 

The  dreadful  silence  of  this  night 
Seems  breathing  in  my  ear  ; 
I  scarce  can  bear  the  lonely  light 
That  burns  oppressed  and  near  ; 
I  stare  at  it  while  half  reclined, 
And  feel  its  thick  light  on  my  mind. 

The  sweetest  fate  have  I  laid  waste 

With  a  remorseless  heart ; 

All  that  was  beautiful  and  chaste, 

For  me  seemed  set  apart ; 

But  I  was  fashioned  to  defy 

Such  treasure,  so  set  richly  by. 

How  could  I  give  up  HER,  whose  eyes 

Were  filled  with  quiet  tears, 

For  many  a  day, — when  thoughts  would  rise, 

Thoughts  darkened  with  just  fears, 

Of  all  my  vices! — Memory  sees 

Her  eye's  divine  remonstrances. 

A  wild  and  wretched  choice  was  mine,— 
A  life  of  low  delight; 
The  midnight  rounds  of  noise  and  wine, 
That  vex  the  wasted  night ; 
21 


242  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

The  bitter  jest,  the  wearied  glee, 
The  strife  of  dark  society. 

To  those  who  plunged  me  in  the  throng 
Of  such  disastrous  joys, 
Who  led  me  by  low  craft  along, 
And  stunned  my  mind  with  noise, — 
I  only  wish  they  now  could  look 
Upon  my  life's  despoiled  book. 

When  midnight  finds  me  torn  apart 
From  vulgar  revelry, 
The  cold,  still,  madness  of  the  heart 
Comes  forth,  and  talks  with  me  ; 
Talks  with  me,  till  the  sky  is  gray 
With  the  chill  light  of  breaking  day. 

My  love  is  lost ; — my  studies  marred  ; 
My  friends  disgraced  and  changed  ; 
My  thoughts  all  scattered  and  impaired  ; 
My  relatives  estranged  ; 
Yet  can  I  not  by  day  recall 
My  ruined  spirit  from  its  thrall. 
Peter  Corcoran's  Memoirs. 


EPITAPH. 

SHE  lived  ; — what  further  can  be  said 

Of  all  the  generations  dead  ? 

She  died  ; — what  more  can  be  foretold 

Of  all  the  living,  young  or  old  ? 

She  lived  with  death  before  her  eye, 

As  one  who  did  not  fear  to  die  ; 

She  died  as  one  exchanging  breath, 

For  immortality  in  death. 

Her  dust  is  here — her  spirit  there — 

Eternity  !     O  tell  me  where  r 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  243 

THE   BANKS   OF   THE   ESK. 

BY    J.    RICHARDSON,    ESQ. 

THERE'S  hardly  motion  in  the  air, 
To  waft  the  floating  gossamer  ; 
Along  the  placid  azure  sky, 
The  clouds  in  fleecy  fragments  lie, 
Like  the  thin  veil  o'er  beauty's  face, 
Conferring  more  endearing  grace. 
Again  I  gaze  upon  thy  stream, 
Loved  scene  of  many  a  youthful  dream, 
Where  rosy  Hope,  with  syren  tongue, 
Carolled  her  fond  alluring  song, 
And  led  my  raptured  soul  along. — 
Why  is  thy  murmur  to  my  ear, 
So  full  of  sorrow,  yet  so  dear  ! 
Why  does  the  rustling  of  thy  woods, 
The  roll  of  thy  autumnal  floods, 
Re-echoed  by  a  hollow  moan, 
Sounds  so  peculiarly  thine  own, 
Awake  in  strange  alternate  measure, 
Thoughts  of  wo,  and  thoughts  of  pleasure? 
'Tis,  that,  once  more,  thy  scenes  can  give 
Times  that  in  memory  hardly  live, 
And  youth  again,  with  angel  smile, 
A  fleeting  moment  can  beguile  ; 
And  bid,  as  in  the  wizard's  glass, 
His  shadowy  visions  gleam,  and  pass, 
Till  quick  returns  the  present  doom. 
Involving  all  in  double  gloom, 
English  Minstrelsy. 


244  THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

THINGS  TO  COME. 

BY    THE    REV.    GEORGE    CROLT. 

THERE  are  murmurs  on  the  deep, 
There  are  thunders  on  the  heaven  ; 

Though  the  ocean  billows  sleep, 

Though  no  cloud  the  sign  has  given ; 

Earth  that  sudden  storm  shall  feel, 

'Tis  a  storm  of  man  and  steel. 

Tribes  are  in  their  forests  now, 
Idly  hunting  ounce  and  deer  ; 

Tribes  are  crouching  in  their  snow 
O'er  their  wild  and  wintry  cheer, 

Doomed  to  swell  that  tempest's  roar, 

Where  the  torrent-rain  is  gore. 

War  of  old  has  swept  the  world, 
Guilt  has  shaken  strength  and  pride ; 

But  the  thunders,  feebly  hurled, 
Quivered  o'er  the  spot,  and  died  ; 

When  the  vengeance  next  shall  fall, 

Woe  to  each,  and  woe  to  all. 

Man  hath  shed  Man's  blood  for  toys, 
Love  and  hatred,  fame  and  gold  ; 

Now,  a  mightier  wrath  destroys  ; 
Earth  in  cureless  crime  grows  old  ; 

Past  destruction  shall  be  tame 

To  the  rushing  of  that  flarne. 

When  the  clouds  of  Vengeance  break, 

Folly  shall  be  on  the  wise, 
Frenzy  shall  be  on  the  weak, 

Nation  against  nation  rise, 
And  the  worse  than  Pagan  sword 
In  Religion's  breast  be  gored. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  245 

Then  the  Martyr's  solemn  cry, 

That  a  thousand  years  has  rung, 
Where  their  robes  of  crimson  lie 

Round  the  *  Golden  Altar'  flung, 
Shall  be  heard, — arid  from  the  'throne* 
The  trumpet  of  the  'Judgment'  blown. 

'Wo  to  Earth,  the  mighty,  wo  !' 
Yet  shall  Earth  her  conscience  lull, 

Till  above  the  brim  shall  flow 

The  draught  of  pall.— The  cup  is  full. 

Yet  a  moment! — Comes  the  ire, — 

Famine,  bloodshed,  flood  and  fire. 

First  shall  fall  a  Mighty  one  ! 

Ancient  crime  had  crowned  his  brow, 
Dark  Ambition  raised  his  throne — 

Truth  his  victim  and  his  foe. 
Earth  shall  joy  in  all  her  fear 
O'er  the  great  Idolater. 

Then  shall  rush  abroad  the  blaze 

Sweeping  Heathen  zone  by  zone  ; 
Afric's  tribe  the  spear  shall  raise, 

Shivering  India's  pagod  throne  : 
China  hear  her  Idol's  knell 
In  the  Russian's  cannon-peal. 

On  the  Turk  shall  fall  the  blow 

From  the  Grecian's  daggered  hand  1 
Blood  like  winter-showers  shall  flow, 

Till  he  treads  the  Syrian  land  ! 
Then  shall  final  vengeance  shine, 
And  all  be  sealed  in  Palestine  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


21* 


246  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


NIGHT. 

BY    E.    ELLIOTT,    ESQ. 

NIGHT  !  thou  art  silent ;  thou  art  beautiful ; 
Thou  art  majestic  ;  and  thy  brightest  moon 
Rides  high  in  heaven,  while  on  the  stream  below, 
Her  image,  glimmering  as  the  waters  glide, 
Floats  at  the  feet  of  Boulten.     There  no  more 
The  green  graves  of  the  pestilence  are  seen  ; 
O'er  them  the  plough  hath  passed,  and  harvests  wave 
Where  haste  and  horror  flung  the  infectious  corpse. 
Grey  Wharncliffe's  rocks  remain,  still  to  out-live 
Countless  editions  of  the  Autumn  leaf. 
But  where  are  now  their  terrors  ?     Striga's  form 
Of  largest  beauty,  wanders  here  no  more  ; 
No  more  her  deep  and  mellow  voice  awakes 
The  echoes  of  the  forest ;  and  a  tale 
Of  fear  and  wonder,  serves  but  to  constrain, 
Around  the  fire  of  some  far  moorland  farm, 
The  speechless  circle,  while  the  importunate  storm, 
O'er  the  bowed  roof,  growls  with  a  demon's  voice. 
The  poacher  whistles  in  *  the  Dragon's  den  ;' 
Nor  fiend,  nor  witch  fears  he.     With  felon  foot 
He  haunts  the  wizard  wave,  and  makes  the  rock, 
Where  spirits  walk,  his  solitary  seat ; 
The  unsleeping  gale  moves  his  dark  curls  ;  the  moon 
Looks  on  his  wild  face ;  at  his  feet,  his  dog 
Watches  his  eye  ;  and  while  no  sound  is  heard, 
Save  of  the  hooming  Don,  or  whirling  leaf, 
Or  rustling  fern,  he  listens  silently, 
But  not  in  fear. — At  once,  he  bounds  away; 
And  the  snared  hare  shrieks,  quivers,  and  is  still. 
Sheffield  Iris. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  247 

TO  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

BY    HORACE    SMITH,    ESQ. 

O  DAUGHTER  dear,  my  darling  child, 

Prop  of  my  mortal  pilgrimage, 
Thou  who  hast  care  and  pain  beguiled, 

And  wreathed  with  Spring  my  wintry  age!  — 
Through  thee  a  second  prospect  opes 

Of  life,  when  but  to  live  is  glee, 
And  jocund  joys,  and  youthful  hopes, 

Come  thronging  to  my  heart  through  thee. 

Backward  thou  lead'st  me  to  the  bowers 

Where  love  and  youth  their  transports  gave  ; 
While  forward  still  thou  strewest  flowers, 

And  bid'st  me  live  beyond  the  grave  ; 
For  still  my  blood  in  thee  shall  flow, 

Perhaps  to  warm  a  distant  line, 
Thy  face,  my  lineaments  shall  show, 

And  e'en  my  thoughts  survive  in  thine. 

Yes,  daughter,  when  this  tongue  is  mute, 

This  heart  is  dust — these  eyes  are  closed, 
And  thou  art  singing  to  thy  lute 

Some  stanza  by  thy  Sire  composed, 
To  friends  around  thou  may'st  impart 

A  thought  of  him  who  wrote  the  lays, 
And  from  the  grave  my  form  shall  sjart, 

Embodied  forth  to  fancy's  gaze. 

Then  to  their  memories  will  throng 

Scenes  shared  with  him  who  lies  in  earth  ; 
The  cheerful  page,  the  lively  song, 

The  woodland  walk,  or  festive  mirth  ; 
Then  may  they  heave  the  pensive  sigh, 

That  friendship  seeks  not  to  control, 
And  from  the  fixed  and  thoughtful  eye, 

The  half  unconscious  tears  may  roll; — 


248 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Such  now  bedew  my  cheek — but  mine 

Are  drops  of  gratitude  and  love, 
That  mingle  human  with  divine, 

The  gift  below,  its  source  above. — 
How  exquisitely  dear  thou  art 

Can  only  be  by  tears  expressed, 
And  the  fond  thrillings  of  rny  heart, 

While  thus  I  clasp  thee  to  rny  breast  ! 
Neiv  Monthly  Magazine. 


STANZAS. 

THOU  art  not  lost. — Thy  spirit  giveth 
Immortal  peace,  and  high  it  liveth  ! 
Thou  art  not  mute. — With  angels'  blending, 
Thy  voice  is  still  to  me  descending  ! 

Thou  are  not  absent. — Sweetly  smiling, 
I  see  thee  yet,  my  griefs  beguiling  ! 
Soft,  o'er  my  slumbers,  art  thou  beaming, 
The  sunny  spirit  of  my  dreaming  ! 

Thine  eyelids  seem  not  yet  concealing 
In  death  their  orbs  of  matchless  feeling; 
Their  living  charms  my  heart  still  numbers  ;— 
Ah  !  sure  they  do  but  veil  thy  slumbers! 

As  kind  thou  art; — for  still  thou'rt  meeting 
This  breast,  which  gives  the  tender  greeting  ! 
And  shall  I  deem  thee  altered  ? — Never  ! 
Thou'rt  with  me  waking — dreaming — ever  ! 
Observer. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  249 

STANZAS, 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

FAREWELL  ! — You  have  banished  me  then 
From  my  home,  and  the  language  of  men 
Must  come  foreign  and  chill  to  my  heart ! — 
But  you  scorned — and  'twas  time  to  depart. 

I  go,  like  the  shadow  that  flies, 
When  night  and  her  darknesses  rise, 
And  there  is  not  a  star  in  the  sky, 
To  light  me  on — even  to  die. 

You  have  slighted  me,  cruel,  and  yet 
I  cannot  disdain  or  forget, 
For  in  hate  you  still  keep  your  control, 
And  it  lies  like  a  chain  on  iny  soul. 

And  now  for  the  storm  and  the  breeze, 
And  the  music  that  lives  on  the  seas, 
And  the  ever-green  valleys  that  lie 
('Midst  the  Alps)  in  the  smile  of  the  sky! 

I  shall  stand  on  the  mountain,  and  shout 
To  the  stars  as  they  wander  about, 
And  perhaps  THEY  may  stop  at  my  call — 
Cut  thou  wilt  be  brighter  than  all. 

Oh !  then  why  do  I  strive  to  remove 
Thee  ?    I  lived  on  the  thought  of  thy  love 
Once,  and  ever  must  think  ('tis  my  fate) 
Of  Thee — though  I  think  of  thy  hate. 

Farewell !  Thou  hast  struck  in  thy  pride 
A  heart  that  for  Thee  would  have  died! 
Yet  I  bear  the  reproach,  as  I  go, 
Of  filling  thy  bosom  with  wo. 


250  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

No  matter ! — I  have,  and  'tis  well, 
A  spirit  that  nothing  shall  quell! 
And  I  know  that,  whatever  my  doom, 
The  laurel  must  spring  from  my  tomb 
IMerary  Gazette. 


ON  AN  IVY  LEAF, 

BROUGHT    FROM    THE    TOMB    OF    VIRGIL. 
BY   MRS.   HEMANS. 

AND  was  thy  home,  pale  withered  thing, 

Beneath  the  rich  blue  southern  sky  ! 
Wert  thou  a  nursling  of  the  Spring, 
The  winds  and  suns  of  glorious  Italy? 

Those  suns,  in  golden  light,  e'en  now, 

Look  o'er  the  Poet's  lovely  grave  ! 
Those  winds  are  breathing  soft,  but  Thou 
Answering  their  whisper,  there  no  more  shalt  wave  ! 

The  flowers  o'er  Posilippo's  brow 

May  cluster  in  their  purple  bloom  ; 
But,  on  the  mantling  ivy-bough, 
Thy  breezy  place  is  void,  by  Virgil's  tornb. 

Thy  place  is  void  ! — Oh  !  none  on  earth, 

This  crowded  earth,  may  so  remain, 
Save  that,  which  souls  of  loftiest  birth 
Leave,  when  they  part  their  brighter  home  to  gain. 

Another  leaf  ere  now  hath  sprung 

On  the  green  stern,  which  once  was  thine  ; — 
When  shall  another  strain  be  sung 
Like  his,  whose  dust  hath  made  that  spot  a  shrine  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  251 

THE  SIGH. 

BY    S.    T.    COLERIDGE,    ESQ. 

WHEN  youth  its  fairy  reign  began, 
Ere  sorrow  had  proclaimed  me  man  ; 
While  peace  the  present  hour  beguiled, 
And  all  the  lovely  prospect  smiled  ; 
Then,  Mary,  'mid  my  lightsome  glee, 
I  heaved  a  painless  sigh  for  thee  ! 

When  tossed  upon  the  waves  of  wo, 
My  harassed  heart  was  doomed  to  know 
The  frantic  burst,  the  outrage  keen, 
And  the  slow  pang  that  gnaws  unseen  ; 
Then,  shipwrecked  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
I  heaved  an  anguished  sigh  for  thee. 

But  soon  Reflection's  power  impressed, 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickly  hope  with  waning  eye, 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die; 
'  I  yielded  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaved  a  languid  sigh  for  thee. 

And  though  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wanderer  from  my  native  home, 
I  fain  would  soothe  the  sense  of  care, 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  joys  that  were  ! 
Thine  image  may  not  banished  be, 
Still,  Mary,  still  1  sigh  for  thee  ! 
1794. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.* 

BY    SAMUEL    ROGERS,    ESQ. 

IT  was  a  well 

Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry  ; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, — 
Greek  sculpture ; — in  some  earlier  clay  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honoured  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  filled,  overflowed  it ; 
Then  dashed  away,  playing  the  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing,  unseen,  unheard, 
Through  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
Of  aged  trees — discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down,  admiring,  as  1  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  maid  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelus  ;  and  now  approached 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village  gossip  there, 
The  hour  Rebekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The   stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps ;  and,  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appeared, — 
Appeared  and  vanished,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  called  up  the  day 
Ulysses  landed  there  ;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 
At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her  ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there 
She  joined  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink ; 

*  Near  Mola  di  Gaeta,  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


253 


And,  while  he  quenched  his  thirst,  standing  on  tiptoe, 
Looked  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile, 
Nor  stirred  till  he  had  done, — fixed  as  a  statue. 

Then,  hadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  Canova, 
Thou  hadst  endowed  them  with  eternal  youth  ; 
And  they  had  evermore  lived  undivided, — 
Winning  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fairest. 


THE  BIRD  OF  PASSAGE. 

AWAY  !  away,  thou  Summer  Bird, 
For  Autumn's  moaning  voice  is  heard, 
In  cadence  wild  and  deepening  swell, 
Of  Winter's  stern  approach  to  tell ! 
Away  !  for  vapours,  damp  and  low, 
Are  wreathed  around  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
And  tempest  clouds  their  mantles  fold 
Around  the  forest's  russet  gold  ! 
Away  !  away !  o'er  earth  arid  sea, 
This  land  is  now  no  home  for  thee  ! 
Arise,  and  stretch  thy  soaring  wing, 
And  seek,  elsewhere,  the  smiles  of  Spring  ! 
The  wanderer  now,  with  pinions  spread, 
Afar  to  brighter  climes  has  fled, 
Nor  casts  one  backward  look,  nor  grieves 
For  those  dear  groves  whose  shade  he  leaves. 
Why  should  he  grieve  ; — the  beam  he  loves 
Shines  o'er  him  still,  where'er  he  roves, 
And  all  those  early  friends  are  near 
Who  made  his  Summer-home  so  dear? 
Oh  !  deem  not  that  the  tie  of  birth 
Endears  us  to  this  spot  of  earth  ; 
For,  wheresoe'er  our  steps  may  roam, 
If  friends  are  near,  that  place  is  home  : — 
No  matter  where  our  fate  may  guide  us, 
If  those  we  love  are  still  beside  us. 
Literary  Gazette.  F.  B. 

22 


254  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  UNFORTUNATE 
QUEEN  OF  FRANCE,  TAKEN  ON  THE  LAST  EXAMI- 
NATION PREVIOUS  TO  HER  EXECUTION. 

EY    MISS    IIOLFORD. 

AND  this  was  she  !  The  peerless  and  the  bright, 
The  false  world's  darling  !  she  who  did  possess, 
(And  held  awhile  in  Europe's  dazzled  sight, 
Glorious  in  majesty  and  loveliness,) 
The  Heaven-lent  power  to  ruin  or  to  bless  ! 
Yes, — this  was  she  !— But  mark  ye,  I  beseech, 
Who  love  the  world, — mark  this  mute  wretchedness, 
And  grave  it  on  your  hearts,  for  it  doth  reach 
To  regions  unexplored  by  eloquence  of  speech  ! 

Nature  gave  loveliness,  and  fate  gave  power, 
And  millions  lavished  incense, — poets  hung 
Their  amaranth  garlands  o'er  the  royal  bower,— 
For  Gallia's  lily  every  lyre  was  strung  ; 
Pride  of  all  eyes,  and  theme  of  every  tongue  : — 
Love,  awe  and  wonder,  were  her  ministers  ; 
Life,  and  its  hours,  upon  her  fiat  hung  ; 
She  held  in  poise  a  nation's  hopes  and  fears  : —  [her's  \ 
Dominion,  beauty,  pomp,  and  the  world's  shout,  were 

Gracious  and  mighty.     Yet  there  came  an  hour 
Of  desolation  ;  and  away  it  swept, 
In  one  rude  whirlwind,  empire,  pomp  and  power! 
O'er  the  fair  brow  the  hoary  winter  crept 
Of  sorrow, — not  of  time. — Those  eyes  have  wept 
Till  grief  had  done  with  tears,  and  calm  and  cold, 
Tired  with  its  own  excess  ;  in  stupor  slept, 
Or  gazed  in  frozen  wonder  to  behold 
The  black  and  hideous  page  of  destiny  unrolled. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  255 

Vet  trace  these  faded  lines  ;  for  they  impart 
A  tale,  may  do  your  careless  bosoms  good! 
Muse  o'er  the  fragments  of  a  mighty  heart, 
Broken  by  sorrow, — ye  whose  jocund  mood, 
Insatiate  feeds  on  pleasure's  tempting  food  ; 
Look  here  ! — It  will  not  harm  ye,  though  your  thought 
Leave  its  gay  flight  to  melt  in  pity's  flood  ! 
To  each  light  heart,  home  be  the  lesson  brought, 
With  what  enduring  bliss  the  world's  fair  smile  is 
fraught ! 

And  is  this  all  ?     No  ; — ye  may  learn  beside, 
That  all,  which  fate  can  threaten  may  be  borne; 
To  see  life's  blessings,  one  by  one,  subside, 
Its  wild  extremes  from  tenderness  to  scorn, 
But  as  the  changes  of  an  April  morn  ! 
For  still  she  was  a  Queen ! — and  majesty 
Survived,  though  she,  deserted  and  forlorn, 
Save  Heaven, had  ne'er  a  friend  to  lift  her  eye  ; —  [die  ! 
But  Heaven  returned  the  glance,  and  taught  her  how  to 
Poems  edited  by  Miss  Baillie. 


SONNET. 

CHOSEN  of  thee,  henceforth  1  consecrate 

Whate'er  of  life  remains  to  soothe  thy  grief; 

And  I  will  weep  with  thee  like  a  fond  mate, 

With  tears  to  sorrow  ministering  relief: — 

And,  if  it  please  thee,  I  will  change  the  measure 

To  joy — and  playfully  I'll  while  away 

Thy  care,  and  bid  a  sunny  smile  to  play 

Upon  thy  cheek,  suffused  once  more  with  pleasure 

I'll  ever  watch  thine  uncoufessed  desires, 

Fondly  to  do  their  import — and  I'll  blend 

The  varied  duties,  as  thy  mood  requires, 

Of  wife,  or  mistress,  sister,  servant,  friend — 

This — this  I'll  do — and  in  thine  arms  resign 

All  other  glory,  save — that  thou  art  mine  ! — 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


STANZAS  TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND, 

COME,  here's  a  health  to  thee  and  thine  ! 

Trust  me,  whate'er  we  may  be  told, 
Few  things  are  better  than  old  wine, 

When  tasted  with  a  friend  that's  old. 
We're  happy  yet ;  and,  in  our  track 

New  pleasures  if  we  may  not  find, 
There  is  a  charm  in  looking  back 

On  sunny  prospects  left  behind. 

Like  that  famed  hill  in  western  clime, 

Through  gaudy  noontide  dark  and  bare, 
That  tinges  still,  at  vesper  time, 

With  purple  gleam  the  evening  air  ; 
So  there's  a  joy  in  former  days, 

In  times,  and  scenes,  and  thoughts  gone  by, 
As  beautiful  their  heads  they  raise, 

Bright  in  Imagination's  sky. 

Time's  glass  is  filled  with  varied  sand, 

With  fleeting  joy  and  transient  grief; 
We'll  turn,  and  with  no  sparing  hand, 

O'er  many  a  strange  fantastic  leaf; 
And  fear  not — but,  'mid  many  a  blot, 

There  are  some  pages  written  fair, 
And  flowers  that  time  can  wither  not, 

Preserved,  still  faintly  fragrant  there. 

As  the  hushed  night  glides  gentlier  on, 

Our  music  shall  break  forth  its  strain, 
And  tell  of  pleasures  that  are  gone, 

And  heighten  those  that  yet  remain  ; 
And  that  creative  breath  divine, 

Shall  waken  many  a  slumbering  thrill, 
And  call  forth  many  a  mystic  line 

Of  faded  joys  remembered  still. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  257 

Again,  the  moments'shall  she  bring, 

When  youth  was  in  his  freshest  prime  ; 
We'll  pluck  the  roses  that  shall  spring 

Upon  the  grave  of  buried  time. 
There's  magic  in  the  olden  song  ; — 

Yea,  e'en  ecstatic  are  the  tears, 
Which  steal  a-down,  our  smiles  among, 

Roused  by  the  sounds  of  other  years. 

And,  as  the  mariner  can  find 

Wild  pleasure  in  the  voiced  roar 
Even  of  the  often-dreaded  wind, 

That  wrecked  his  every  hope  before  ; 
If  there's  a  pang  that  lurks  beneatb — 

For  youth  had  pangs — oh  !  let  it  rise  ! 
'Tis  sweet  to  feel  the  poet  breathe 

The  spirit  of  our  former  sighs. 

We'll  hear  the  strains  we  heard  so  soft, 

In  life's  first,  wann,  impassioned  hours, 
That  fell  on  our  young  hearts  so  soft 

As  summer  dews  on  summer  flowers  ! 
And  as  the  stream,  where'er  it  hies, 

Steals  something  in  its  purest  flow, 
Those  strains  shall  taste  of  ecstasies 

O'er  which  they  floated  long  ago. 

Even  in  our  morn,  when  fancy's  eye 

Glanced,  sparkling  o'er  a  world  of  bliss, 
When  joy  was  young,  and  hope  was  high, 

We  could  not  feel  much  more  than  this  : 
llo\ve'er,  then,  time  our  day  devours, 

Why  should  our  smiles  be  overcast  ? 
Why  should  we  grieve  for  fleeting  hours  ? 

We  find  a  future  in  the  past. 

Blackwood's  Magazine.  T.  D. 

22* 


258  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


AN  ARABIAN  SONG. 

FOUNDED  ON  AN  ANECDOTE   RELATED   BY  AN  ORIEN- 
TAL TRAVELLER. 

BY  MRS.  HEMANS. 

AWAY  !  though  still  thy  sword  is  red, 

With  life-blood  from  my  sire  ; 
No  drop  of  thine  may  now  be  shed, 

To  quench  my  spirit's  fire, 
Though  on  my  heart,  'twould  fall  more  blest, 
Than  dews  upon  the  desert's  breast. 

I've  sought  thee  'midst  the  haunts  of  men,— 

Through  the  wide  city's  fanes  ; 

I've  sought  thee  by  the  lion's  den, 

O'er  pathless,  boundless  plains  ; 

No  step  that  tracked  the  burning  waste, 

But  I  its  lonely  course  have  traced. 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  baleful  spell, 

O'er  my  dark  bosom  cast ; 
No  thought  may  dream,  no  words  may  tell 

What  there  unseen  hath  passed  : — 
This  hollow  cheek,  this  faded  eye, 
Are  seals  of  thee — behold,  and  fly  ! 

Haste  thee,  and  leave  my  threshold-floor, 

Inviolate  and  pure  ; 
Let  not  thy  presence  tempt  me  more — 

Man  may  not  thus  endure. 
Away !  I  bear  a  fettered  arm, — 
A  heart  that  burns — but  must  not  harm ! 

Hath  not  my  cup  for  thee  been  poured, 

Beneath  the  palm-tree's  shade  ! 
Hath  not  soft  sleep  thy  frame  restored, 

Within  my  dwelling  laid ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  259 

What  though  unknown — yet  who  shall  rest 
Secure — if  not  the  Arab's  guest  ? 

Begone !  outstrip  the  fleet  Gazelle  ! 

The  wind  in  speed  subdue  ; 
Fear  cannot  fly  so  swift,  so  well, 

As  vengeance  shall  pursue  ! 
And  hate,  like  love — in  parting  pain, 
Smiles  o'er  one  hope — we  meet  again. 

To-morrow — and  the  avenger's  hand, 

The  warrior's  dart  is  free  ; 
E'en  now,  no  spot  in  all  the  land, 
Save  this,  had  sheltered  thee : — 
Let  blood  the  monarch's  hall  profane, 
The  Arab's  tent  must  bear  no  stain  ! 

Fly  !  may  the  desert's  fiery  blast 

Avoid  thy  sacred  way, 
And  fettered,  till  thy  steps  be  past, 

Its  whirlwinds  sleep  to-day  : — 
I  would  not,  that  thy  doom  should  be 
Assigned  by  Heaven,  to  aught  but  me. 
Literary  Gazette. 


A  PERSIAN  PRECEPT. 

BY    HERBERT    KNOWLES. 

FORGIVE  thy  foes  ; — nor  that  alone  ; 

Their  evil  deeds  with  good  repay  ; 
Fill  those  with  joy  who  leave  thee  none, 

And  kiss  the  hand  upraised  to  slay. 

So  does  the  fragrant  Sandal  bow 
In  meek  forgiveness  to  its  doom  ; 

And  o'er  the  axe  at  every  blow, 
Sheds  in  abundance  rich  perfume  ! 


260  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


SONG  OF  THE  ZEPHYRS. 

O'ER  the  lofty  swelling  mountain, — 
O'er  the  dancing  summer  fountain, — 
By  the  towering  forest  waving, — 
By  the  brook,  the  willows  laving, 
Wafting  odorous  airs  along, 
We  pour  the  mellow-breathing  song. 

Little  wanton,  winged  rovers, 
Oft  we  tend  the  walks  of  lovers ; 
Witness  smiles  with  passion  glowing, 
Souls  with  tenderness  o'erflowing, 
Vows,  that,  fainting  on  the  tongue, 
Mingle  with  our  breezy  song  ! 

Oft  we  fan  the  flame  that  rushes 

O'er  the  maiden's  cheek,  in  blushes  : 

Softly  to  her  swain  revealing 

All  the  luxury  of  feeling, 

In  her  bosom — though  so  strong — 

Gentle  as  our  airy  song  ! 

Oft  we,  in  our  sportive  duty, 
Kiss  the  dimpling  cheek  of  beauty, — 
And  on  soft  ethereal  winglets 
Wanton  in  her  sunny  ringlets, — 
Breathing,  as  we  dance  along, 
Liquid  notes  of  rapturous  song! 

When  Care's  ever-rising  bubble 
Clouds  the  wanderer's  soul  with  trouble, 
We — sweet  Pleasure's  viewless  minions- 
Fan  his  brow  with  balmy  pinions, 
Chasing  sorrow's  shades  along, 
With  our  spirit-soothing  song. 

While  the  sweets  of  eve  diffusing, 
Oft  we  meet  the  poet  musing, 


261 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Mark  his  eye  sublimely  glancing, 
With  erratic  thought  entrancing  ! 
Catching  inspiration  strong, 
From  our  soul-enchanting  song. 

Oft  we  waft  the  pious  whispers 
Of  the  saint's  low-breathing  vespers — 
Sighs  of  love, — and  tears  of  sorrow, — 
For  our  sweetest  strains  we  borrow  ; — 
Bearing  on  our  wings  along, 
All  the  ecstasy  of  song. 
New  Monthly  Magazine.  J.  L.  W. 


STANZAS, 

ON    BURNING    A    PACKET    OF    LETTERS. 

COLD  is  the  hand  that  gives  thee  to  the  flame, 
Sweet  source  of  pleasure  in  my  early  years ! 

But,  O  ye  friends  !  to  me  impute  no  blame, 
I  mark  its  quick  destruction  through  my  tears. 

Cold  was  the  hand  that  at  one  cast  destroyed 

Sweet  friendship,  which,  upon  that  crackling  scroll, 

Depicted  was ;  even  where,  with  skill  employed, 
Her  pen  had  traced  the  kindness  of  her  soul. 

Ah  !  why  the  proof  of  former  joy  preserve  ! 

A  present  grief  'twere  folly  to  retain  ; 
Years  to  increase  the  change  would  only  serve ; 

And  every  change  would  add  severer  pain. 


262          THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 

MELANCHOLY. 

BY    J.    MOIR,    ESQ. 

THE  sun  of  the  morning, 

Unclouded  and  bright, 
The  landscape  adorning 

With  lustre  and  light, 
To  glory  and  gladness 

New  bliss  may  impart; — 
But,  oh  !  give  to  sadness 

And  softness  of  heart 
A  moment  to  ponder,  a  season  to  grieve, 
The  light  of  the  moon,  or  the  shadows  of  eve! 

Then  soothing  reflections 

Arise  on  the  mind  ; 
And  sweet  recollections 

Of  friends  who  were  kind  ; 
Of  love  that  was  tender, 

And  yet  could  decay  ; 
Of  visions  whose  splendour 

Time  withered  away ; 

In  all  that  for  brightness  or  beauty  may  seem 
The  painting  of  fancy — the  work  of  a  dream  ! 

The  soft  cloud  of  whiteness, 

The  stars  beaming  through, 
The  pure  moon  of  brightness, 

The  deep  sky  of  blue  ; — 
The  rush  of  the  river, 

Through  vales  that  are  still, 
The  breezes  that  ever 

Sigh  lone  o'er  the  hill, 

Are  sounds  that  can  soften,  and  sights  that  impart 
A  bliss  to  the  eye,  and  a  balm  to  the  heart. 
Constable's  Edinbui'gh  Magazine. 


THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 


263 


THE  PASSAGE  THROUGH  THE  DESERT. 

CALL  it  not  Loneliness,  to  dwell 
In  woodland  shade,  or  hermit  dell,^- 
To  pierce  the  forest's  twilight  maze, 
Or  from  the  Alpine  summit  gaze  ; 
For  Nature  there  all  joyous  reigns, 
And  fills  with  life  her  wild  domains : 
A  bird's  light  wing  may  break  the  air, 
A  fairy  stream  may  murmur  there, 
A  bee  the  mountain-rose  may  seek, 
A  chamois  bound  from  peak  to  peak, 
An  eagle,  rushing  to  the  sky, 
Wake  the  deep  echoes  with  its  cry; 
And  still  some  sound,  thy  heart  to  cheer, 
Some  voice,  though  not  of  man,  is  near. 

But  he,  whose  weary  step  has  traced 
Mysterious  Afric's  awful  waste, 
Whose  eye  Arabia's  wilds  hath  viewed, 
Can  tell  thee  what  is  Solitude  ! 
.     It  is,  to  traverse  lifeless  plains 
Where  everlasting  stillness  reigns, 
And  billowy  sands,  and  dazzling  sky, 
Seem  boundless,  as  Infinity  ! 
It  is,  to  sink  with  speechless  dread 
In  scenes  unmeet  for  mortal  tread  ; 
Severed  from  earthly  being's  trace, 
Alone  amidst  unmeasured  space. 

'Tis  noon, — and  fearfully  profound 
Silence  is  on  the  desert  'round. 
Supreme  she  reigns,  above,  beneath, 
With  all  the  attributes  of  Death! 
No  bird  the  blazing  heaven  may  dare  ; 
No  insect  'bide  the  scorching  air  ; 
The  ostrich,  though  of  sun-born-race, 
Seeks  a  more  sheltered  dwelling-place  ; 


264  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

The  lion  slumbers  in  his  lair  ; 
The  serpent  shuns  the  noontide  glare ; 
But  slowly  winds  the  patient  train 
Of  camels,  o'er  the  blasted  plain, 
Where  they  and  man  may  brave  alone 
The  terrors  of  the  burning  zone. 

Faint  not,  oh  Pilgrims!  though  on  high 

As  a  volcano  flame  the  sky  ! 

Shrink  not,  though,  as  a  furnace  glow, 

The  dark  red  seas  of  sand,  below  ! 

Though  not  a  shadow,  save  your  own, 

Across  the  dread  expanse  is  thrown  ; 

Mark,  where  your  feverish  lips  to  lave, 

Wide  spreads  the  fresh  transparent  wave  ! 

Urge  your  tired  camels  on,  and  take 

Your  rest  beside  yon  glistening  lake  ; 

Thence,  haply,  cooler  gales  may  spring, 

Arid  fan  your  brows  with  lighter  wing. 

Lo  !  nearer  now,  its  glassy  tide 

Reflects  the  date-tree  on  its  side  ; 

Speed  on  !  pure  draughts  and  genial  air, 

And  verdant  shade  await  you  there. 

Oh!  glimpse  of  heaven!  to  him  unknown 

That  hath  not  tracked  the  burning  zone  ! 

— Forward  they  press — they  gaze  dismayed — 

The  waters  of  the  desert  fade  ! 

Melting  to  vapours,  that  elude 

The  eye,  the  lip,  their  brightness  wooed.* 

What  meteor  comes  ! — A  purple  haze 
Hath  half  obscured  the  noontide  rays  ! 
Onward  it  moves  in  swift  career, 
A  blush  upon  the  atmosphere  ; — 
Haste,  haste  !  avert  the  impending  doom, 
Fall  prostrate  ! — 'tis  the  dread  Simoom  ! 
Bow  down  your  faces — till  the  blast 
On  its  red  wing  of  flame  hath  past, 

*  The  miragej  or  nitrous  band  assuming  the  appearance  of  water. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  265 

Far  bearing  o'er  the  sandy  wave, 
The  viewless  angel  of  the  grave. 

It  came — 'tis  vanished — but  hath  left 
The  wanderers  even  of  hope  bereft  ;* 
The  ardent  heart,  the  vigorous  frame, 
Pride,  courage,  strength,  its  power  could  tame ; 
Faint  with  despondence,  worn  with  toil, 
They  sink  upon  the  burning  soil ; 
Resigned,  amidst  those  realms  of  gloom, 
To  find  their  death-bed  and  their  tomb. 

But  onward  still ! — Yon  distant  spot 
Of  verdure  can  deceive  you  not. 
Yon  palms,  which  tremulously  seemed 
Reflected  as  the  waters  gleamed, 
Along  the  horizon's  verge  displayed, 
Still  rear  their  slender  colonade, 
A  landmark,  guiding  o'er  the  plain, 
The  Caravan's  exhausted  train. 

Fair  is  that  little  Isle  of  Bliss, 
The  desert's  emerald  Oasis  ! 
A  rainbow  on  the  torrent's  wave, 
A  gem,  embosomed  in  the  grave, 
The  sunbeam  of  a  stormy  day, 
Its  beauty's  image  might  convey  ; 
Beauty,  in  horror's  lap  that  sleeps, 
While  silence  round  her  vigil  keeps. 

Rest,  weary  Pilgrims!  calmly  laid 

To  slumber  in  the  Acacia-shade ; 

Rest,  where  the  shrubs  your  camels  bruise 

Their  aromatic  breath  diffuse  ; 

Where  softer  light  the  sunbeams  pour, 

Through  the  tall  palm  and  sycamore, 

*  The  extreme  languor  and  despondence  produced  l>y  the  Si- 
moom, even  when  its  effects  tire  not  fatal,  have  been  described 
by  many  travellers. 

23 


266  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM, 

And  the  rich  date  luxuriant  spreads 
Its  pendant  clusters  o'er  your  heads. 
Nature,  once  more,  to  seal  your  eyes, 
Murmurs  her  sweetest  lullabies  ; 
Again  each  heart  the  music  hails, 
Of  rustling  leaves  and  sighing  gales; 
And  oh  ! — to  Afric's  child  how  dear  ! — 
The  voice  of  fountains  gushing  near  ! 

Sweet  be  your  slumbers,  and  your  dreams, 
Of  waving  groves  and  rippling  streams  ! 
Far  be  the  serpent's  venomed  coil 
From  the  brief  respite  won  by  toil! 
Far  be  the  awful  shades  of  those 
Who  deep  beneath  the  sands  repose, 
The  hosts,  to  whom  the  desert's  breath 
Bore  swift  and  stern  the  call  of  death  ! 
Sleep  !  may  no  scorching  blast  invade 
The  freshness  of  the  Acacia-shade  ; 
But  gales  of  heaven  your  spirits  bless 
While  life's  best  balm — forgetful  ness  ; 
Till  night  from  many  an  urn  diffuse 
The  treasures  of  her  world  of  dews. 

The  day  hath  closed. — The  moon'on  high 
Walks  in  her  cloudless  majesty. 
A  thousand  stars  to  Afric's  heaven 
Serene  magnificence  have  given  ; 
Pure  beacons  of  the  sky,  whose  flame 
Shines  forth  eternally  the  same  ! 
Blest  be  their  beams!  whose  holy  light 
Shall  guide  the  camel's  footsteps  right, 
And  lead,  as  with  a  torch  divine, 
The  Pilgrim  to  his  Prophet's  shrine. 

— Rise  !  bid  your  Tsle  of  Palms  adieu  ; 
Again  your  lonely  march  pursue, 
While  winds  of  night  are  freshly  blowing, 
And  heavens  with  softer  beauty  glowing. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


267 


— Tis  silence  all.— The  solemn  scene 

Wears,  at  each  step,  a  ruder  mien  ; 

For  giant  rocks,  at  distance  piled, 

Cast  their  deep  shadows  o'er  the  wild. 

Darkly  they  rise ! — What  eye  hath  viewed 

The  caverns  of  their  solitude  ? 

Away  ! — within  those  awful  cells, 

The  savage  lord  of  Afric  dwells  ! 

Heard  ye  his  voice  ? — The  Lion's  roar 

Swells  as  when  billows  break  on  shore  ; 

Well  may  the  camel  shake  with  fear, 

And  the  steed  pant : — his  foe  is  near. 

Haste  !  Light  the  torch — bid  watch-fires  throw 

Far  o'er  the  waste  a  ruddy  glow  ; 

Keep  vigil — guard  the  bright  array 

Of  flames  that  scare  him  from  his  prey  ! 

Within  their  magic  circle  press, 

Oh  wanderers  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Heap  high  the  pile,  and,  by  its  blaze, 

Tell  the  wild  tales  of  elder  days; 

Arabia's  wondrous  lore  that  dwells 

On  warrior  deeds  and  wizard  spells  ; 

Enchanted  domes,  'mid  scenes  like  these, 

Rising  to  vanish  with  the  breeze  ; 

Gardens  whose  fruits  are  gems,  that  shed 

Their  light  where  mortal  may  not  tread ; 

And  genii,  o'er  whose  pearly  halls, 

The  eternal  billow  heaves  and  falls. 

With  charms  like  these,  of  mystic  power, 

Watchers  !  beguile  the  midnight  hour. 

Slowly  that  hour  hath  rolled  away, 
And  star  by  star  withdraws  its  ray  : 
Dark  children  of  the  sun  !  again 
Your  own  rich  Orient  hails  his  reign. 
He  comes,  but  veiled  ;  with  sanguine  glare, 
Tinging  the  mists  that  load  the  air  ; 
Sounds  of  dismay,  and  signs  of  flame, 
The  approaching  hurricane  proclaim. 


268  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

'Tis  death's  red  banner  streams  on  high. — 
Fly  to  the  rocks  for  shelter  !— Fly  ! 
Lo  !  darkening  o'er  the  fiery  skies 
The  pillars  of  the  desert  rise  ! 
On,  in  terrific  grandeur  wheeling, 
A  giant  host,  the  heavens  concealing, 
They  move  like  mighty  genii-forms, 
Towering  immense  midst  clouds  and  storms ! 
Who  shall  escape  !  With  awful  force 
The  whirlwind  bears  them  on  their  course. 
They  join — they  rush  resistless  on — 
The  landmarks  of  the  plain  are  gone  ! 
The  steps,  the  forms,  from  earth  effaced 
Of  those  who  trod  the  boundless  waste  ! 
All  whelmed ! — All  hushed ! — None  left  to  bear 
Sad  record  how  they  perished  there  ! 
No  stone  their  tale  of  death  shall  tell, — 
The  desert  guards  its  mysteries  well ! 
And  o'er  the  unfathomed  sandy  deep 
Where  now  their  nameless  relics  sleep, 
Oft  shall  the  future  Pilgrim  tread, 
Nor  know  his  steps  are  on  the  dead  ! 
Constables  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


FROM  PLATO. 

BY    THOMAS    MOORE,   ESQ. 

WHY  dost  thou  gaze  upon  the  sky  ? 

Oh  !  that  I  were  that  spangled  sphere, 
And  every  star  should  be  an  eye 

To  wonder  on  thy  beauties  here  ! 

In  life  thou  wert  my  morning  star, 

But  now  that  death  hath  stolen  thy  light, 

Alas !  thou  shinest  dim  and  far, 
Like  the  pale  beam  that  weeps  at  night. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  269 


THE    BROKEN  HEART. 

— — And  \\ 'hat's  her  history  ? 

A  blank,  my  Lord.  TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

YES  ! — I  remember  well  how  beautiful 

I  used  to  think  her,  as  she  lay  in  slumber, 

In  the  cool  evening  hour  upon  her  couch, 

Before  the  open  lattice,  which  the  vines 

Half  veiled  with  drooping  wreaths — how  like  an  angel 

She  looked — with  those  soft  glossy  ringlets, 

And  slight  arched  brow,  and  cheek  of  ivory, 

Tinged  with  a  blush  of  rose,  bright,  delicate 

As  that,  which  paints  the  unfolded  apple-blossom. 

And  yet,  at  times,  what  heavy  sighs  she  breathed 
In  that  so  beautiful  sleep  !  and  from  her  eye-lids 
Have  wandered  tears,  like  morning  dew  on  roses. 
'Twas  sadness  she  was  dying  of! — deep — deep — 
For  which,  on  this  earth,  grew  no  healing  balm. 
And  they  had  brought  her  from  her  ruder  clime 
To  that  sweet  spot,  where  ever  cloudless  skies, 
Pure  gales,  and  smiling  scenes,  their  influence  shed, — 
But  not  for  her  this  influence  : — she  was  then 
*  Past  hope — past  cure.' 

They  said  her  heart  was  broken  ; — but  a  child, 

I  knew  not,  then,  the  meaning  of  that  speech — 

Yet  never  word,  or  murmur  of  regret, 

Lingered  upon  that  gentle  lip.     The  spirit 

Was  weaned  from  this  world,  and  it  looked  on  high 

In  humble  faith.     The  grave  no  terrors  had 

For  one  to  whom  existence  had  no  charms. 

Music  alone  still  held  its  witching  o'er  her; 
And  she  would  dwell  for  hours  on  the  rich  tones 
She  knew  so  well  to  draw  forth  from  her  lute, 
As  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  she  loved 
To  mingle  with  them  hor  soft  voice,  when  all 
23* 


270  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

But  ceaseless,  life-consuming  sorrow,  slept. 

And,  at  those  hours,  how  often  used  I  wake 

From  my  light  sleep,  and  to  the  casement  steal  ; 

Then  as  the  moon  beam  glittered  on  the  Rhone, 

The  music  of  that  voice  and  lute  arose 

In  sighs  of  fragrance,  and  across  the  wave 

Rung  in  strange  sounds  of  harmony,  as  though  [there,, 

Some  Spirit  of  Heaven  his  midnight  hymn  breathed 

All  on  his  angel  watch  as  lone  he  lingered. 

I  do  remember  it  well — though  long,  long  past  ; 

And — whether  it  was  young  imagination, 

Or  the  enchantment  of  the  scene  and  time, — 

Such  strains  as  those  I  never  after  heard. 

She  died  : — and  died  unknown  to  all  around, 
Though  many  a  look  of  fondness  rested  on  her. 
It  was  but  a  short  moment  fled — her  eyes 
Had  in  expressive  silence  gazed  upon 
The  glorious  sun,  that  from  a  sky  of  gold 
Went  down  in  Majesty. — Her  earnest  glance 
Still  lingered  on  its  last  light — (she  then  knew 
The  setting  sun  would  rise  for  her — no  more.) — 
That  last  light  faded, — vanished, — and  she  closed 
Her  heavy  eyes,  and  back  reclined  her  head, 
As  in  soft  sleep : — 'twas  an  eternal  sleep, 
For  she  had  died — unconscious  all, — had  died. 
And  there  she  lay,  like  some  fair  sculptured  form, 
Lovely  and  pure,  and  pale  and  motionless. 

Literary  Gazette.  ISABEL. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  271 


TO   A   DYING  INFANT. 

SLEEP,  little  baby  !  Sleep  ! 

Not  in  thy  cradle  bed, 
Not  on  thy  mother's  breast 
Henceforth  shall  be  thy  rest, 

But  with  the  quiet  dead. 

Yes — with  the  quiet  dead, 
Baby,  thy  rest  shall  be  ! 
Oh  !  many  a  weary  wight, 
Weary  of  life  and  light, 

Would  fain  lie  down  with  thee. 

Flee  little  tender  nursling ! 
Flee  to  thy  grassy  nest ; 
There  the  first  flowers  shall  blow, 
The  first  pure  flake  of  snow 

Shall  fall  upon  thy  breast. 

Peace !  Peace !   The  little  bosom 

Labours  with  shortening  breath  :• — 
Peace  !  Peace  !  That  tremulous  sigh 
Speaks  his  departure  nigh  ! — 

Those  are  the  damps  of  death. 

I've  seen  thee  in  thy  beauty, 

A  thing  all  health  and  glee  ; 
But  never  then  wert  thou 
So  beautiful,  as  now, 

Baby,  thou  seem'st  to  me  ! 

Thine  up-turned  eyes  glazed  over, 

Like  hare-bells  wet  with  dew  ; 
Already  veiled  and  hid 
By  the  convulsed  lid, 

Their  pupils  darkly  blue. 


272  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thy  little  mouth  half-open — 

Thy  soft  lip  quivering, 
As  if  like  summer  air 
Ruffling  the  rose  leaves,  there 
Thy  soul  was  fluttering. 

Mount  up,  immortal  essence  ! 

Young  spirit,  haste,  depart ! — 
And  is  tliis  death  !— Dread  Thing  ? 
If  such  thy  visiting, 

How  beautiful  thou  art  1 

Oh  !  I  could  gaze  forever 
Upon  that  waxen  face : 
So  passionless,  so  pure  ! — 
The  little  shrine  was  sure 

An  Angel's  dwelling  place. 

Thou  weepest,  childless  Mother  ! 

Aye,  weep — 'twill  ease  thine  heart  ;- 
He  was  thy  first-born  Son, 
Thy  first,  thine  only  one, 

'Tis  hard  from  him  to  part ! 

'Tis  hard  to  lay  thy  darling 

Deep  in  the  damp  cold  earth, — 
His  empty  crib  to  see, 
His  silent  nursery, 

Once  gladsome  with  his  mirth. 

To  meet  again,  in  slumber, 

His  small  mouth's  rosy  kiss  ; 
Then,  wakened  with  a  start 
By  thine  own  throbbing  heart, 

His  twining  arms  to  miss  • 

To  feel  (half  conscious  why,) 
A  dull,  heart-sinking  weight, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  273 

Till  memory  on  thy  soul 
Flashes  the  painful  whole, 

That  thou  art  desolate  ! 

And  then  to  lie  and  weep, 

And  think  the  live-long  night 
(Feeding  thine  own  distress 
With  accurate  greediness) 

Of  every  past  delight ; — 

Of  all  his  winning  ways, 

His  pretty,  playful  smiles, 
His  joy  at  sight  of  thee, 
His  tricks,  his  mimicry, — 

And  all  his  little  wiles ! 

Oh  !  these  are  recollections 

Round  mothers'  hearts  that  cling, — 
That  mingle  with  the  tears 
And  smiles  of  after  years, 
With  oft  awakening. 

But  thou  wilt  then,  fond  Mother ! 

In  after  years,  look  back, 
(Time  brings  such  wondrous  easing) 
With  sadness  not  unpleasing, 

E'en  on  this  gloomy  track. — 

Thou'lt  say — '  My  first-born  blessing, 

It  almost  broke  my  heart 
When  thou  wert  forced  to  go  ! 
And  yet,  for  thee,  I  know, 

'Twas  better  to  depart. 

*  God  took  thee  in  his  mercy, 
A  lamb,  untasked,  untried  ; 
He  fought  the  fight  for  thee, 
He  won  the  victory, 

And  thou  art  sanctified  ! 


274  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


'  I  look  around  and  see 

The  evil  ways  of  men; 
And  oh  !  Beloved  child  ! 
I'm  more  than  reconciled 

To  thy  departure  then. 

'The  little  arms  that  clasped  me, 

The  innocent  lips  that  pressed, — 
Would  they  have  been  as  pure 
Till  now,  as  when  of  yore, 

I  lulled  thee  on  rny  breast  ? 

'  Now,  like  a  dew-drop  shrined 

Within  a  crystal  stone, 
Thou'rt  safe  in  heaven,  my  dove  ! 
Safe  with  the  Source  of  Love, 
The  Everlasting  One. 

*  And  when  the  hour  arrives 

From  flesh  that  sets  me  free, 
Thy  spirit  may  await 
The  first  at  heaven's  gate, 

To  meet  and  welcome  me.J 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


EPIGRAM, 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  JULIAN. 

As  a  garland  once  I  made, 

In  a  bed  of  roses  laid, 

Love  I  found  ;  with  eager  joy 

By  his  wings  I  seized  the  boy ; 

Crowning  then  an  ample  cup, 

In  a  bumper  drank  him  up. 

Now  along  my  veins  he  swims, 

Fluttering,  tickling  through  my  limbs. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


275 


TO   HELEN. 

I'VE  whirled  o'er  leagues  of  plain  and  hill, 
And  like  its  gusts  have  swept  the  sea, 

Yet  one  deep  dream  is  on  me  still, 
Sweet  Helen,  it  is  all  of  thee. 

Back  wings  the  heart,  plain,  hill  and  tide, 

And  loves,  and  lingers  at  thy  side. 

I  see  thee  give  the  parting  flower, 
Whose  very  touch  was  like  a  spell ; 

And  startle  at  its  sudden  power, 
When  deadly  paleness  on  me  fell  ; 

And  see  thy  guileless  beauty  bend 

In  blushing  pity  o'er  thy  friend. 

My  simple  Helen  !    How  that  heart 

Shall  feel, — once  conscious  that  it  feels! 

What  crimson  to  thy  cheek  shall  dart 
When  the  first  vision  o'er  it  steals, 

What  tears  shall  weep  Love's  madness,  folly, 
.  Thou  child  of  Love  and  Melancholy. 

I've  seen  it  in  that  eye  of  blue, 

Wild  wandering  over  earth  and  sky, 

Fve  seen  it  in  that  cheek's  deep  hue, 
When  some  sublimer  fantasy 

Wrought  in  thee  like  an  infant  Muse; — 

But  these  were  passion's  tears  and  hues. 

I've  seen  thee  press  the  rose  to  lips 
That  might  have  given  it  richer  red, 

And  where  the  western  sunbeam  dips 
Its  radiance,  gaze  till  all  was  fled  : — 

Helen  ! — when  once  thy  hour  is  nigh, 

Thy  lot  is  bliss — or  misery  ! 

Who  tells  thee  this  ?     A  silent  one, 

Who  loved  thee,  as  thou  lov'dst  the  flower, 


276  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

With  passion  to  himself  unknown, 

And  hovered  round  thee  hour  by  hour, 
And  saw  thee  but  a  lovely  child, 
Nor  woke  till  all  his  soul  was  wild. 

Child  as  thou  wert— yet  didst  thou  ne'er 
Think  who  he  was  that  loved  thee  so  ? 

Did  thy  heart  never  thrill,  to  hear 

His  tone,  so  strange,  and  sad,  and  low  ? 

The  glance  so  raised,  so  sunk  again, — 

Was  not  the  fearful  secret  plain  ? 

Yet  I  have  torn  myself  from  thee ! 

This  hour  the  surge  is  at  my  feet, 
That  bears  me,  ah  ! — how  gloomily  ! — 
Where  thou  and  I  shall  never  meet! 
Aye, 'tis  a  fitting  hour  to  tell 
The  heart's  deep  history. — Fare  thee  well  J 
Literary  Gazette. 


SONG. 

'TWAS  sweet  to  look  upon  thine  eyes, 
As  they  looked  answering  to  mine  own  ; 

'Twas  sweet  to  listen  to  thy  sighs, 
And  hear  my  name  on  every  tone. 

'Twas  sweet  to  meet  in  yon  lone  glen 

While  smiles  the  heart's  best  sunshine  shed  ; 

'Twas  sweet  to  part,  and  think  again 
The  gentle  things  that  each  had  said. 

But  all  this  sweetness  was  not  worth 
The  tears  that  dimmed  its  after  light ! 

Love  is  a  sweet  star  at  its  birth, 
But  one  that  sets  in  deepest  night.        L.  E.  L. 


THE    POETICAL     ALBUM.  277 


LINES 

SUGGESTED    BY    THE    SIGHT    OF    SOME    LATE    AUTUMN 
FLOWERS. 

THOSE  few  pale  autumn  flowers, 

How  beautiful  they  are  ! 
Than  all  that  went  before, 
Than  all  the  summer  store, 
How  lovelier  far ! 

And  why  ? — They  are  the  last ! 
The  last !  the  last !  the  last ! 
Oh  !  by  that  little  word, 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirred  ; 
That  sister  of  the  past ! 

Pale  flowers  !  Pale  perishing  flowers  ! 

Ye're  types  of  precious  things ; 
Types  of  those  bitter  moments, 
That  flit  like  life's  enjoyments, 
On  rapid,  rapid  wings. 

Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones, 

(That  time  the  fastest  spends) 
Last  tears  in  silence  shed, 
Last  words  half  uttered, 

Last  looks  of  dying  friends. 

Who  but  would  fain  compress 

A  life  into  a  day, 
The  last  day  spent  with  one 
Who,  e'er  the  morrow's  sun, 

Must  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ? 

Oh,  precious, precious  moments! 

Pale  flowers  !  ye're  types  of  those  ; 
The  saddest !  sweetest !  dearest ! 
Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 
To  an  eternal  close. 
24 


278  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Pale  flowers  !  Pale  perishing  flowers ! 

I  woo  your  gentle  breath — 
I  leave  the  summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows  ; 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  COWPER. 

BY    MRS.    HUNTER. 

Tis  not  thy  Muse,  though  tuneful  is  her  song, 
That  draws  me,  Cowper,  weeping  to  thy  tomb  ; 

Nor  could  thy  Grecian  lore  thy  fame  prolong 
In  memory,  through  time's  revolving  gloom. 

Were  not  thy  gifts  of  nature,  and  of  art, 

Joined  to  the  treasure  of  a  feeling  heart. 

Formed  for  each  dear  delight  by  man  enjoyed, 
For  love,  for  friendship,  and  each  social  tie, 

The  nipping  blast  of  fate  thy  hopes  destroyed, 
And  in  the  bud  thy  rose  was  doomed  to  die  : 

Friendship  remained,  and  there  thy  lot  was  blessed, 

Of  every  heart,  as  soon  as  known,  possessed. 

O  soul  of  tenderness !  though  thou  art  flown, 
Still  shall  thy  fair  example  teach  the  age, 

That  gentle  sympathies  perform  alone 

More  than  e'er  wit  or  wisdom  taught  the  sage  : — 

They  bind  in  bonds  of  love  the  captive  will, 

In  sickness,  sorrow,  death,  unchanging  still ! 
English  Minstrelsy. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  279 

STANZAS 

ON    THE    LOSS    OF    HIS    MAJESTY'S    SHIP    SALDANAH. 
BY   THOMAS   SHERIDAN,    EStt. 

*  BRITANNIA  rules  the  waves  1' 
Heard'st  thou  that  dreadful  roar? 
Hark  !  'tis  bellowed  from  the  caves 
Where  Lough-Swilly's  billow  raves, 
And  three  hundred  British  graves 

Taint  the  shore. 

No  voice  of  life  was  there  I 
'Tis  the  dead  that  raise  that  cry ; 
The  dead,  who  raised  no  prayer 
As  they  sunk  in  wild  despair, 
Chaunt  in  scorn  that  boastful  air, 

Where  they  lie. 

'  Rule  Britannia'  sung  the  crew 
When  the  stout  Saldanah  sailed  ; 
And  her  colours,  as  they  flew, 
Flung  the  warrior-cross  to  view, 
Which  in  battle  to  subdue 

Ne'er  had  failed. 

Bright  rose  the  laughing  morn, 
(That  morn  that  sealed  her  doom  ;) 
Dark  and  sad  is  her  return, 
And  the  storm-lights  faintly  burn, 
As  they  toss  upon  her  stern 

Mid  the  gloom. 

From  the  lonely  beacon's  height, 
As  the  watchmen  gazed  around, 
They  saw  their  flashing  light 


280  THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

Drive  swift  athwart  the  night ; 
Yet  the  wind  was  fair,  and  right 

To  the  Sound. 

But  no  mortal  power  shall  now 
That  crew  and  vessel  save  ; — 
They  are  shrouded  as  they  go 
In  a  hurricane  of  snow, 
And  the  track  beneath  her  prow 

Is  their  grave. 

There  are  spirits  of  the  deep, 
Who,  when  the  warrant's  given, 
Rise  raging  from  their  sleep 
On  rock,  or  mountain  steep, 
Or  'mid  thunder-clouds  that  keep 

The  wrath  of  heaven. 

High  the  eddying  mists  are  whirled 
As  they  rear  their  giant  forms ; 
See  !  their  tempest  flag's  unfurled, — 
Fierce  they  sweep  the  prostrate  world, 
And  the  withering  lightning's  hurled 

Through  the  storms. 

O'er  Swilly's  rocks  they  soar, 
Commissioned  watch  to  keep  ; 
Down,  down,  with  thundering  roar, 
The  exulting  demons  pour. — 
The  Saldanah  floats  no  more 

O'er  the  deep ! 

The  dreadful  hest  is  past ! — 
All  is  silent  as  the  grave  ; 
One  shriek  was  first  and  last. — 
Scarce  a  death  sob  drunk  the  blast, 
As  sunk  her  towering  mast 

Beneath  the  wave. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  281 

'  Britannia  rules  the  waves' — 

O  vain  and  impious  boast ! 

Go  mark,  presumptuous  slaves, 

Where  He,  who  sinks  or  saves, 

Scars  the  sands  with  countless  graves 

Round  your  coast. 
Album. 


AN  APOLOGUE. 


BY    T.    GASPY,    ESQ. 

'TWAS  eight  o'clock,  and  near  the  fire 

My  ruddy  little  boy  was  seated  ; 
And  with  the  titles  of  a  sire, 

My  ears  expected  to  be  greeted. 
But  vain  the  thought !     By  sleep  oppressed, 

No  father  there  the  child  descried ; 
His  head  reclined  upon  his  breast, 

Or  nodding,  rolled  from  side  to  side. 

'Let  this  young  rogue  be  sent  to  bed,' — 

More  I  had  not  had  time  to  say, 
When  the  poor  urchin  raised  his  head 

To  beg  that  he  might  longer  stay. 
Refused  ;  away  his  steps  he  bent, 

With  tearful  eye  and  aching  heart ; 
But  claimed  his  playthings  ere  he  went, 

And  took  up  stairs  his  horse  and  cart. 

Still  for  delay,  though  oft  denied, 

He  pleaded  ; — wildly  craved  the  boon  ; — 
Though  past  his  usual  hour,  he  cried 

At  being  sent  to  bed  so  soon  ! 
If  stern  to  him,  his  grief  I  shared, 

(Unmoved  who  sees  his  offspring  weep?) 
Of  soothing  him  I  half  despaired, 

When  all  his  cares  were  lost  in  sleep. 
24* 


282  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

1  Alas  poor  infant!'  I  exclaimed, 

'  Thy  father  blushes  now  to  scan 
In  all  that  he  so  lately  blamed 

The  follies  and  the  fears  of  man. 
The  vain  regret — the  anguish  brief— 

What  thou  hast  known  sent  up  to  bed, 
Pourtrays  of  man  the  idle  grief 

When  doomed  to  slumber  with  the  dead.' 

And  more  [  thought — when  up  the  stairs 

With  longing,  lingering  looks,  he  crept ; 
To  mark  of  man  the  childish  cares, 

His  playthings  carefully  he  kept. 
Thus  mortals  in  life's  later  stage, 

When  nature  claims  their  forfeit  breath, 
Still  grasp  at  wealth,  in  pain  and  age, 

And  cling  to  golden  toys  in  death  ! 

'Tis  morn,  and  see  my  smiling  boy 

Awakes  to  hail  returning  light ; 
To  fearless  laughter,  boundless  joy  ! 

Forgot  the  tears  of  yesternight ! 
Thus  shall  not  man  forget  his  wo, — 

Survive  of  age  and  death  the  gloom, 
Smile  at  the  cares  he  knew  below, 

And,  renovated,  burst  the  tomb  ? 
Literary  Gazette. 


EPIGRAM, 

FROM    THE    GREEK. 

ON  marble  tombs  let  no  rich  essence  flow, 
No  chaplet  bloom— no  lamp  suspended  glow  ; 
Vain  cost!  while  yet  1  live,  these  honours  pay, 
Wine  can  but  moisten  ashes  into  clny. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  283 


THE  SHIP. 

HER  mighty  sails  the  breezes  swell, 

And  fast  she  leaves  the  lessening  land, 
And  from  the  shore  the  last  farewell 

Is  waved  by  many  a  snowy  hand  ; 
And  weeping  eyes  are  on  the  main, 

Until  its  verge  she  wanders  o'er ; 
But,  from  that  hour  of  parting  pain, 

Oh  !  she  was  never  heard  of  more  ! 

In  her  was  many  a  mother's  joy, 

And  love  of  many  a  weeping  fair ; 
For  her  was  wafted,  in  its  sigh, 

The  lonely  heart's  unceasing  prayer; 
And  oh!  the  thousand  hopes  untold 

Of  ardent  youth,  that  vessel  bore  ; 
Say,  were  they  quenched  in  ocean  cold, 

For  she  was  never  heard  of  more  ? 

When  on  her  wide  and  trackless  path 

Of  desolation,  doomed  to  flee, 
Say,  sank  she  'mid  the  blending  wrath 

Of  racking  cloud  and  rolling  sea  ? 
Or,  where  the  land  but  mocks  the  eye, 

Went  drifting  on  a  fatal  shore  ? 
Vain  guesses  all ! — Her  destiny 

Is  dark : — she  ne'er  was  heard  of  more. 

The  moon  hath  twelve  times  changed  her  form, 

From  glowing  orb  to  crescent  wan  ; 
'Mid  skies  of  calm,  and  scowl  of  storm, 

Since  from  her  port  that  ship  hath  gone  ; 
But  ocean  keeps  its  secret  well ; 

And  though  we  know  that  all  is  o'er, 
No  eye  hath  seen — no  tongue  can  tell 

Her  fate : — she  ne'er  was  heard  of  more  ! 


284 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Oh  !  were  her  tale  of  sorrow  known, 

'Twere  something  to  the  broken-hcnrt, 
The  pangs  of  doubt  would  then  be  gone, 

And  Fancy's  endless  dreams  depart ! 
It  may  not  be  : — there  is  no  ray 

By  which  her  doom  we  may  explore  ; 
We  only  know  she  sailed  away, 

And  ne'er  was  seen  nor  heard  of  more. 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


LOVE. 

IN    FIVE    SONNETS. 
I. 

THERE  is  an  hour,  when  all  our  past  pursuits, 

The  dreams  and  passions  of  our  early  day, 

The  unripe  blessedness  that  dropped  away 

From  our  young  tree  of  life, — like  blasted  fruits, — 

All  rush  upon  the  soul :  some  beauteous  form 

Of  one  we  loved  and  lost,  or  dying  tone, 

Haunting  the  heart  with  music  that  is  flown, 

Still  lingers  near  us,  with  an  awful  charm  ! 

I  love  that  hour, — for  it  is  deeply  fraught 

With  images  of  things,  no  more  to  be  ; — 

Visions  of  hope,  and  pleasure  madly  sought, 

And  sweeter  dreams  of  Jove  and  purity; — 

The  poesy  of  heart,  that  smiled  in  pain, 

And  all  my  boyhood  worshipped — but  in  vain  1 

II. 

WTe  met  in  secret, — in  the  depth  of  night, 

When  there  was  none  to  watch  us,  not  an  eye, 

Save  the  lone  dweller  of  the  silent  sky, 

To  gaze  upon  our  love  and  pure  delight! 

And  in  that  hour's  unbroken  solitude, 

When  the  white  moon  hath  robed  her  in  its  beam, 

I've  thought,  some  vision  of  a  blessed  dream, 


THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM.  285 

Or  spirit  of  the  air,  before  me  stood, 

And  held  communion  with  rne.     In  mine  ear 

Her  voice's  sweet  notes,  breathed  not  of  the  earth  ; 

Her  beauty  seemed  not  of  a  mortal  birth  ; 

And  in  my  heart,  there  was  an  awful  fear, 

A  thrill,  like  some  deep  warning  from  above, 

That  soothed  its  passion  to  a  spirit's  love  ! 

III. 

She  stood  before  me, — the  pure  lamps  of  heaven 
Lighted  her  charms,  and  those  soft  eyes,  which  turned 
On  me  with  dying  fondness. — My  heart  burned, 
As  tremblingly  with  her's  my  vows  were  given. 
Then,  softly  !  'gainst  my  bosom,  beat  her  heart ! 
These  loving  arms  around  her  form  were  thrown, 
Binding  her  heavenly  beauty,  like  a  zone ; 
While  from  her  ruby,  warm  lips,  just  apart, 
Like  bursting  roses,  sighs  of  fragrance  stole  ; 
And  words  of  music,  whispering  in  mine  ear, 
Things  pure  and  holy,  none  but  mine  should  hear. 
For  they  were  accents  uttered  from  her  BOU!  ; 
For  which,  no  tongue  her  innocence  reproved. 
And  breathed  for  one  who  loved  her — and  was  loved  ! 

IV. 

She  hung  upon  my  bosom — and  her  sighs, 
Fragrant  and  fast,  were  warm  upon  my  cheek  ; 
And  they  were  all  her  suffering  heart  could  speak, 
Save  the  soft  language  of  her  eloquent  eyes, 
Which  the  night  hid  not,  for  her  soul  was  there, 
In  starry  brightness, — tempered  by  distress, — 
All  softened  down  with  love's  own  tenderness  ; 
And  some  wild  tokens  of  her  heart's  despair 
Were  trembling  o'er  her  beauty.     There  was  one 
Who  would  not  have  exchanged  that  sorrowing  hour, 
For  all  that  he  had  dreamed  in  rapture's  bower. 
In  the  wide  world  there  was  one  heart  alone, 
That  blessed  him  with  its  love,  and  truth,  and  charms, — 
And  it  was  beauty,  now,  within  his  arms! 


236  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

V. 

They  loved  for  years  with  growing  tenderness. 
They  had  but  one  pure  prayer  to  waft  above, 
One  heart, — one  hope, — one  dream, — and  that  was  love; 
They  loved  for  years,  through  danger  and  distress, 
Till  they  were  parted,  arid  his  spotless  fame 
Became  the  mark  of  hate  and  obloquy  ; 
'Till  the  remembering  tear  that  dimmed  her  eye, 
Was  dried  on  blushes  of  repentant  shame. 
While  he — oh  God  ! — in  raptured  vision  sweet, 
Would  walk  alone  beneath  the  evening  star, 
Watching  the  light  she  loved,  and  dream  of  her, 
And  of  the  hour,  when  they  again  should  meet ! 
They  met  at  last ; — but  love's  sweet  vision  fled 
Forever  from  his  heart, — for  she  was  wed  ! — 
Dublin  Magazine. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

BY    JAMES    MONTGOMERY,    ESQ. 

WHERE  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I  started, 
Dear  companions  of  my  golden  days  ? 

Ye  are  dead,  estranged  from  me,  or  parted ; 
Flown  like  morning  clouds,  a  thousand  ways. 

Where  art  thou,  in  youth  my  friend  and  brother? 

Yea  in  my  soul,  my  friend  and  brother  still! 
Heaven  received  thee,  and  on  earth  none  other 

Can  the  void  in  my  lorn  bosom  fill. 

Where  is  she  whose  looks  were  love  and  gladness  ? 

Love  and  gladness  I  no  longer  see  ; 
She  is  gone,  and  since  that  hour  of  sadness 

Nature  seems  her  sepulchre  to  me. 

Where  am  I  ?  Life's  current  faintly  flowing, 
Brings  the  welcome  warning  of  release  ; 

Struck  with  death  ;  ah  !  whither  am  I  going? 

All  is  well,  my  spirit  parts  in  peace. 
Polyhymnia. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  287 

LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    THE    PLA.TFORM    AT    BERNE. 
BY   MISS    PORDEJV. 

THREE  days  of  chequered  smiles  and  tears, 
Such  changeful  cheer  as  Autumn  wears, 
Still  have  I  sought  this  spot  to  gaze 
On  yon  rich  work  of  Gothic  days, — 
That  proud  Cathedral,  perfect  still ; 
Or,  fairer  yet,  this  noble  hill, 
Whose  ridge  patrician  mansions  crown, 
And  terraced  gardens  sloping  down, 
Where  murmuring  in  its  rapid  flow 
Broad  winds  the  clear  blue  Aar  below. 
Nor  deemed  I  aught  might  hence  be  seen 
Beyond  that  swelling  slope  of  green  ! 
But  now  what  vision  mocks  my  sight? 
Those  summits  of  eternal  white, 
More  than  the  eye  may  count  around, 
Stretched  to  the  horizon's  farthest  bound. 
See  Him*  whose  fine  and  painted  horn 
Rises  to  meet  the  earliest  morn, 
And  bask  in  clay,  while  deepest  night 
Still  blackens  each  surrounding  height  ; — 
And  Shef  whose  glittering  dells  are  known 
To  sprites  of  middle-air  alone, — 
The  virgin  on  whose  frozen  breast 
A  shadowy  eagle  loves  to  rest, 
And  spreads  his  mighty  pinions  dun 
To  shield  her  from  the  amorous  sun, 
When  all  the  lingering  beam  he  throws, 
She  blushes  through  her  waste  of  snows, 
And  all  her  brother  Alps  around 
Are  with  a  roseate  glory  crowned. 

*  The  Finster-Aar-Horn,  the  highest  of  the  Bernese  Alps, 
t  The   Jungfrau,  or  Virgin's  Horn,  so   called  fiom  the   belief 
that  it  is  inaccessible. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

All  save  the  Shreckhorn's  dreadful- peak, 

For  ever  black,  and  bare,  and  bleak  ; 

For  not  a  sprite  that  comes  to  throw 

The  soft  and  velvet  veil  of  snow, 

That  dresses  other  heights,  will  dare 

To  plant  his  venturous  footsteps  there  ! 

Ye  mountains  !  have  your  peaks  sublime 

Scorned  all  the  wasting  power  of  time, 

Unchanged  since  first  the  world  began, 

'Mid  all  the  changing  fates  of  man. 

Eagles  of  Austria,  Rome  and  Gaul, 

Lour  !  for  these  heights  have  mocked  you  all. 

Ye  thought  these  realms  an  easy  spoil ; 

They  foiled  you,  and  shall  ever  foil ; 

For  freedom  lives  her  flag  to  rear 

Where  hills  are  proud  and  steeps  are  clear. 

And  who  that  knowsjhese  velvet  vales, 

These  pine-clad  steeps — these  healthful  gales, 

These  glittering  peaks  to  conqueror's  hand 

Will  ever  yield  the  lovely  land  ? 

Helvetia,  trust  the  prophet  prayers, 
A  sister  spirit  breathes  and  shares  ; 
Albion,  though  distant,  still  allied 
By  kindred  feelings,  kindred  pride, — 
Where  winds  beneath  the  solar  course 
Blow  with  unerring,  changeless  force  ; 
The  slave  may  fear  a  tyrant's  nod, 
The  humbled  soul  may  kiss  the  rod, 
But  here,  our  spirits  more  sublime, 
Are,  like  our  seasons,  unconfined  ; 
There's  vigour  in  the  changing  clirne, 
And  freedom  breathes  in  every  wind. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  289 


THE  SPARTAN'S   MARCH. 

It  was  at  once  a  delightful  and  terrible  sight  to  sec  the  Spartans 
marching  on  to  the  tunes  of  their  flutes,  without  ever  troubling 
their  order,  or  confounding  their  ranks  ;  their  music  leading  them 
into  danger  with  a  deliberate  hope  and  assurance,  as  if  some 
Divinity  had  sensibly  assisted  them. 

PLUTARCH. 

'Twas  morn  upon  the  Grecian  hills, 
Where  peasants  dressed  the  vines  ; 

There  was  sun-light  on  Cithaeron's  rills, 
Arcadia's  rocks  and  pines  ; 

And  brightly  through  his  reeds  and  flowers 

Eurotas  wandered  by, 
When  a  sound  arose  from  Spartan  towers 

Of  solemn  harmony. 

Was  it  the  shepherd's  choral  strain 

That  hymned  the  forest-God? 
Or  the  virgins  as  to  Pallas'  fane 

With  their  full-toned  lyres  they  trod  ? 

But  helms  were  glancing  on  the  stream, 

Spears  ranged  in  close  array, 
And  shields  flung  back  a  glorious  beam 

To  the  morn  of  a  fearful  day ; 

And  the  mountain  echoes  of  the  land 
Swelled  through  the  deep  blue  sky, 

While  to  soft  strains  mo*ed  forth  a  band 
Of  men  that  moved  to  die. 

They  marched  not  with  the  trumpet's  blast, 

Nor  bade  the  horn  peal  out ; 
And  the  laurel  woods  as  on  they  passed, 

Rung  with  no  battle  shout ! 
25 


290  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

They  asked  no  clarion's  voice  to  fire 
Their  souls  with  an  impulse  high  ! 

But  the  Dorian  reed  and  the  Spartan  lyre, 
For  the  sons  of  liberty  ! 

And  still  sweet  flutes  their  path  around, 

Sent  forth  Eolian  breath  ; 
They  needed  not  a  sterner  sound 

To  marshal  them  for  death. 

So  moved  they  calmly  to  their  field, 

Thence  never  to  return, 
Save  bearing  back  the  Spartan's  shield, 

Or  on  it  proudly  borne. 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


SONG. 

THE  lights  are  fair  in  rny  father's  hall, 

The  red  wine  is  bright  to  see  ; 
But  I'll  flee  like  a  bird  and  leave  them  all, 

My  Ocean  Love  !  for  thee. 

There  is  gold  around  my  silken  robe, 

And  white  pearls  are  in  my  hair: 
And  they  say  that  gems  and  the  broidered  vest 

Are  woman's  chiefest  care; 

But  dearer  to  me  is  one  silent  smile 

Of  thine  eagle  eye*han  them  all; 
And  dearer  the  deck  of  thy  bark  to  me 

Than  my  father's  lighted  hall. 

I  have  no  home  now  but  thy  arms, 

And  they  are  the  world  to  me  ; 
And  be  thou  but  true,  I'll  never  regret 

All,  dear  love !  I  have  left  for  thee.          L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  291 


LINES 

ON  A  PORTRAIT,  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  THAT  OF  NELL 
GWYN,  BY  SIR  PETER  LELY,  IN  THE  POSSESSION 
OF  R.  CRACROFT,  ESQ. 

BEAUTIFUL  and  radiant  girl ! 
I  have  heard  of  teeth  of  pearl, — 
Lips  of  coral, — cheeks  of  rose, — 
Necks  and  brows,  like  drifted  snows, — 
Kyes,  as  diamonds  sparkling  bright, 
Or  the  stars  of  summer's  night, — 
And  expression,  grace  and  soul, 
Softly  tempering  down  the  whole  : — 
But  a  form  so  near  divine, 
With  a  face  so  fair  as  thine, — 
And  so  sunny  bright  a  brow, — 
Never  met  my  gaze  till  now  ! 
Thou  wert  Venus'  sister  twin 
If  this  shade  be  thine,  NELL  GWYN  ! 

Cast  that  carcanet  away, 

Thou  hast  need  of  no  display — 

Gems,  however  rare,  to  deck 

Such  an  alabaster  neck  ! 

Can  the  brilliant's  lustre  vie 

With  the  glories  of  thine  eye  ? 

Or  the  ruby's  red  compare 

With  the  two  lips  breathing  there  ? 

Can  they  add  a  richer  glow 

To  thy  beauties  ?     No,  sweet,  no  ! 

Though  thou  bearest  the  name  of  one 

Whom  'twas  virtue  once  to  shun, — 

It  were  sure  to  Taste  a  sin, 

JVbu?  to  pass  thee  by — NELL  GWYN  ! 

But  they've  wronged  thee  ; — and  I  swear 
By  that  brow,  so  dazzling  fair, — 


292  THE      POETICAL     ALBUM. 

By  the  light  subdued  that  flashes 

From  thy  drooping  'lids'  silk  lashes,  — 

By  the  deep  blue  eyes  beneath  them,  — 

By  the  clustering  curls  that  wreathe  them,  — 

By  thy  softly  blushing  cheek,  — 

By  thy  lips,  that  more  than  speak,  — 

By  thy  stately  swan-like  neck, 

Glossy  white  without  a  speck,  — 

By  thy  slender  fingers  fair,  — 

Modest  mien,  and  graceful  air, 

'Twas  a  burning  shame  and  sin, 

Sweet,  to  christen  thee  —  NELL 


Wreathe  for  aye  thy  snowy  arms, 
Thine  are,  sure,  no  Wanton's  charms  ! 
Like  the  fawn's—  as  bright  and  shy  — 
Beams  thy  dark,  retiring  eye  ;  — 
No  bold  invitation's  given 
From  the  depths  of  that  blue  heaven  ;— 
Nor  one  glance  of  lightness  hid 
'Neath  its  pale,  declining  lid  ! 
No,  I'll  not  believe  thy  name 
Can  be  aught  allied  to  Shame. 
Then  let  them  call  thee  what  they  will, 
I've  sworn  and  I'll  maintain  it  still, 
(Spite  of  Tradition's  idle  din,) 
Thou  art  not—  canst  not  be—  NELL  GWYN  I 

A.  A.  W. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  293 


TO  JESSY. 

BY    LORD    BYRON. 

THERE  is  a  mystic  thread  of  life 

So  dearly  wreathed  with  mine  alone, 

That  Destiny's  relentless  knife 
At  once  must  sever  both  or  none. 

There  is  a  form  on  which  these  oyes 
Have  often  gazed  with  fond  delight  ; 

By  day  that  form  their  joy  supplies, 

And  dreams  restore  it  through  the  night. 

There  is  a  voice  whose  tones  inspire 

Such  thrills  of  rapture  through  my  breast, 

I  would  not  hear  a  seraph  choir 
Unless  that  voice  could  join  the  rest. 

There  is  a  face  whose  blushes  tell 

Affection's  tale  upon  the  cheek  ; 
But  pallid  at  one  fond  farewell, 

Proclaims  more  love  than  words  can  speak. 

There  is  a  lip,  which  mine  hath  prest, 

And  none  had  ever  prest  before, 
It  vowed  to  make  me  sweetly  blest, 

That  mine  might  only  press  it  more. 

There  is  a  bosom — all  my  own — 
Hath  pillowed  oft  this  aching  head  ; 

A  mouth  that  smiles  on  me  alone, 

An  eye  whose  tears  with  mine  are  shed. 

There  are  two  hearts  whose  movements  thrill 

In  unison  so  closely  sweet, 
That,  pulse  to  pulse  responsive  still, 

They  both  must  heave — or  cease  to  beat. 
25* 


294  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

There  are  two  souls  whose  equal  flow, 
In  gentle  streams  so  calmly  run, 

That  when  they  part — They  part  ? — Ah,  no  ! 
They  cannot  part ! — Those  souls  are  one  ! 
Literary  Panorama. 


THE  NYMPH  OF  THE   STREAM. 

BY    MRS.    HUNTER. 

NYMPH  of  the  mountain-stream,  thy  foaming  urn 
Wastes  its  pure  waters  on  the  rock  below ; 

There  no  green  herbage  shall  a  leaf  return, 

No  plant  can  flourish  and  no  flower  can  blow ; — 

Stern  Solitude,  whose  frown  the  heart  appals, 

Dwells  on  the  heath-clad  hills  around  thy  waterfalls. 

Yet  not  in  vain  thy  murmuring  fountain  flows, — 
It  cheers  the  wanderer  in  the  dreary  waste, 

Awakes  dull  Silence  from  her  deep  repose, 

And  charms  the  eye,  the  ear,  the  soul,  of  taste  ; — 

For  this  the  grateful  muse  in  fancy  twines 

Around  thy  urn,  the  rose  and  waving  wild  woodbines. 

And  when  far  distant  from  the  glowing  scene 
Of  castles,  winding  straths,  and  tufted  woods, 

From  Lomond's  fairy  banks,  and  islands  green, 
His  cloud-capt  mountains,  and  his  silver  floods, 

Memory  shall  turn  in  many  a  waking  dream, 

To  meet  thee,  lonely  Nymph  !  beside  thy  mountain- 
stream. 

English  Minstrelsy. 


THE    POETICAL     ALBUM.  295 


ITALY. 


A     FRAGMENT. 

EARTH'S  loveliest  land,  I  behold  thee  in  dreams, 
All  gay  in  the  summer,  and  drest  in  sun-beams, 
In  the  radiance,  which  breaks  on  the  purified  sense 
Of  the  thin-bodied  ghosts  that  are  flitting  from  hence. 
The  blue  distant  Alps,  and  the  blue  distant  main, 
Bound  the  far  varied  harvests  of  Lombardy's  plain  ; 
The  rivers  are  winding  in  blue  gleaming  lines, 
Round  the  ruins  of  old,  round  the  hill  of  the  vines, — 
Round  the  grove  of  the  orange — the  green  myrtle  bower, 
}}y  castle  and  convent — by  town  and  by  tower. 
Through  the  bright  summer azure,the  north  breezes  flow, 
That  are  cooled  in  their  flight  over  regions  of  snow ; 
Or  westerly  gales,  on  whose  wandering  wings, 
The  wave  of  the  ocean  its  silver  dew  flings. 
Bright—  bright  is  the  prospect,  and  teeming  the  soil, 
With  the  blessings  of  promise — with  corn,  wine  and  oil ; 
Where  the  cypress  and  myrtle,  and  orange  combine, 
And  around  the  dark  olive  gay  wantons  the  vine. 
Woods  leafy  and  rustling,  o'ershadow  the  scene, 
With  their  forests  of  branches,  and  changes  of  green  ; 
And  glossy  their  greenness,  where  sunshine  is  glistening, 
And  mellow  their  music,  where  SILENCE  is  listening; 
And  the  streamlets  glide  through  them  with  glassier  hue, 
And  the  sky  sparkles  o'er  them  with  heavenlier  blue. 
How  deep  and  how  rich  is  the  blush  of  the  rose, 
That  spreading  and  wild  o'er  the  wilderness  grows  ! — 
What  waftures  of  incense  are  filling  the  air, 
For  the  bloom  of  a  summer  unbounded  is  there  ! 

The  soft  and  voluptuous  spirit  of  love, 
Rules  in  earth  and  in  ether — bolow  and  above  ! — 
In  the  blue  of  the  sky — in  the  glow  of  the  beam, 
In  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  and  the  flow  of  the  stream ! 


296  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

At  his  presence  the  rose  takes  a  ruddier  bloom, 
And  the  vine-bud  exhales  a  more  wanton  perfume; 
Even  the  hoarse  surging  billows  have  softened  their  roar, 
And  break  with  a  musical  fall  on  the  shore. 
Blackwood' }s  Magazine. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN    THE     BAY    OF    NAPLES. 
BY    PERCY    BYSSHK    SHELLEY. 

THE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light 

Around  its  unexpended  buds  ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight — 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown  ; 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion  ; 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within,  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth, 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  297 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure  : 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  this  life  of  care, 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 
They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not,  and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


INSCRIPTION 

ON    A    NATURAL    GROTTO,    NEAR    A    DEEP    STREAM. 

HEALTH,  rose-lipped  cherub,  haunts  this  spot : — 

She  slumbers  oft  in  yonder  nook  ; 
If  in  the  shade  you  trace  her  not, 

Plunge — and  you'll  find  her  in  the  brook ! 


298  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  CONTRAST. 

And  this  is  love  : 
Can  you  then  say  that  love  is  happiness  ! 

THERE  were  two  portraits  : — one  was  of  a  Girl 
Just  blushing  into  woman  ; — it  was  not 
A  face  of  perfect  beauty,  but  it  had 
A  most  bewildering  smile, — there  was  a  glance 
Of  such  arch  playfulness  and  innocence, 
That  as  you  looked,  a  pleasant  feeling  came 
Over  the  heart,  as  when  you  hear  a  sound 
Of  cheerful  music.     Rich  and  glossy  curls 
Were  bound  with  roses,  and  her  sparkling  eyes 
Gleamed  like  Thalia's,  when  some  quick  device 
Of  mirth  is  in  her  laugh.     Her  light  step  seemed 
Bounding  upon  the  air,  with  all  the  life, 
The  buoyant  life,  of  one  untouched  by  sorrow. 

There  was  another, — drawn  in  after  years  : — 
The  face  was  young  still  ;  but  its  happy  look 
Was  gone  ;  the  cheek  had  lost  its  colour,  and 
The  lip  its  smile; — the  light  that  once  had  played 
Like  sunshine  in  those  eyes,  was  quenched  and  dim, 
For  tears  had  wasted  it ;  her  long  dark  hair 
Floated  upon  her  forehead,  in  loose  waves, 
Unbraided  ;  and  upon  her  pale  thin  hand 
Her  head  was  bent,  as  if  in  pain  ; — no  trace 
Was  left  of  that  sweet  gaiety,  which  once 
Seemed  as  if  grief  could  darken  not, — as  care 
Would  pass  and  leave  behind  no  memory. — 
There  was  one  whom  she  loved  undoubtingly, 
As  youth  will  ever  love, — he  sought  her  smile, 
And  said  most  gentle  things,  although  he  knew 
Another  had  his  vows. — Oh!  there  are  some 
Can  trifle,  in  cold  vanity,  with  all 
The  warm  soul's  precious  throbs,  to  whom  it  is 
A  triumph  that  a  fond  devoted  heart 
Js  breaking  for  them, — who  can  bear  to  call 
Young  flowers  into  beauty,  and  then  crush  them  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  299 

Affections  trampled  on,  and  hopes  destroyed, 
Tears  wrung  from  very  bitterness,  and  sighs 
That  waste  the  breath  oflife,-— these  all  were  her's 
Whose  image  is  before  me.     She  had  given 
Life's  hope  to  a  most  fragile  bark, — to  love! 
'Tvvas  wrecked— wrecked  by  love's  treachery !  She  knew, 
Yet  spoke  not  of  his  falsehood  ;  but  the  charm 
That  bound  her  to  existence  was  dispelled. — 
Her  days  were  numbered : — She  is  sleeping  now. 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


SONG. 

THE  dream  on  the  pillow 

That  flits  with  the  day, 
The  leaf  of  the  willow 

A  breath  wears  away ; 

The  dust  on  the  blossom, 

The  spray  on  the  sea  ; 
Aye — ask  thine  own  bosom  ! — 

Are  emblems  of  thee. 

When  I  trust  the  dark  waters, 

And  tempests  are  near, 
List  the  blue  sea's  false  daughters, 

And  think  not  on  fear, — 

Oh  then  I'll  believe  tb.ee 

As  once  I  believed, 
Nor  dread  thou'lt  deceive  me 

As  thon  hast  deceived. 

When  the  rose  blooms  at  Christmas, 

I'll  trust  thee  again, 
Or  the  snow  falls  in  summer, — 

But  never  till  then  !  L.  E.  L. 


300  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM. 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


IN    TWO    SONNETS. 
I. 

0  'TIS  a  touching  thing  to  make  one  weep! — 
A  tender  infant  with  its  curtained  eye, 
Breathing  as  it  would  neither  live  nor  die, 
With  that  unmoving  countenance  of  sleep, — 
As  if  its  silent  dream,  serene  and  deep, 

Had  lined  its  slumbers  with  a  still  blue  sky, — • 
So  that  the  passive  cheeks  unconscious  lie, 
With  no  more  life  than  roses,  just  to  keep 
The  blushes  warm  and  the  mild  odorous  breath: 
Oh  blossom-boy !  so  cairn  is  thy  repose  ! 
So  sweet  a  compromise  of  life  and  death ! 
'Tis  pity  those  fair  buds  should  e'er  unclose, 
For  Memory  to  stain  their  inward  leaf, 
Tinging  thy  dreams  with  unacquainted  grief! 

II. 

Thine  eyelids  slept  so  beauteously,  I  deemed 
No  eyes  would  wake  more  beautiful  than  they  j 
Thy  glossy  cheeks  so  unim passioned  lay, 

1  loved  their  peacefulness,  and  never  dreamed 
Of  dimples;  for  thy  parted  lips  so  seemed 

I  did  not  think  a  smile  could  sweetlier  play, 
Nor  that  so  graceful  life  could  charm  away 
Thy  graceful  death,  till  those  blue  eyes  upbeamed  ! 
Now  slumber  lies  in  dimpled  eddies  drowned, 
And  roses  bloom  more  rosily  for  joy ; 
And  odorous  silence  ripens  into  sound, 
And  fingers  move  to  mirth  ! — All-beauteous  boy ! 
How  dost  thou  waken  into  smiles,  and  prove, 
If  not  more  lovely,  thou  art  more  like  Love ! 
London  Magazine.  T. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  301 

STANZAS 

BY   THE    HON.    ST.    GEORGE    TUCKER. 

DAYS  of  my  youth, 

Ye  have  glided  away ; 
Hairs  of  my  youth, 

Ye  are  frosted  and  gray  ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth, 

Your  keen  sight  is  no  more  ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Ye  have  furrowed  all  o'er ; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

All  your  vigour  is  gone  ; 
Thoughts  of  my  youth, 

Your  gay  visions  are  flown. 

Days  of  my  youth, 

I  wish  not  your  recall ; 
Hours  of  my  youth, 

I'm  content  ye  should  fall ; 
Eyes  of  my  youth, 

You  much  evil  have  seen  ; 
Cheeks  of  my  youth, 

Bathed  in  tears  have  you  been  ; 
Thoughts  of  ray  youth, 
^  Ye  have  led  me  astray  ; 
Strength  of  my  youth, 

Why  lament  your  decay. 

Days  of  my  age, 

Ye  will  shortly  be  past ; 
Pains  of  my  age, 

Yet  awhile  ye  can  last ; 
Joys  of  my  age, 
^  In  true  wisdom  delight ; 
Eyes  of  my  age, 

lie  religion  your  light ; 
26 


302  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thoughts  of  my  age, 

Dread  ye  not  the  cold  sod  ; 
Hopes  of  my  age, 

Be  ye  fixed  on  your  God. 
The  Mirror  of  Literature. 


THE  MERRY  HEART. 

BY    THE    REV.    H.    H.    MILMAN. 

I  WOULD  not  from  the  wise  require 

The  lumber  of  their  learned  lore  ; 
Nor  would  I  from  the  rich  desire 

A  single  counter  of  their  store. 
For  I  have  ease,  and  I  have  health, 

And  I  have  spirits,  light  as  air ; 
And  more  than  wisdom,  more  than  wealth,- 

A  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 

Like  other  mortals  of  my  kind, 

I've  struggled  for  dame  Fortune's  favour. 
And  sometimes  have  been  half  inclined 

To  rate  her  for  her  ill  behaviour. 
But  life  was  short — I  thought  it  folly 

To  lose  its  moments  in  despair  ; 
So  slipped  aside  from  melancholy, 

With  merry  heart,  that  laughed  at  care. 

And  once,  'tis  true,  two  'witching  eyes 

Surprised  me  in  a  luckless  season, 
Turned  all  my  mirth  to  lonely  sighs, 

And  quite  subdued  my  better  reason. 
Yet  'twas  but  love  could  make  me  grieve, 

And  love  you  know's  a  reason  fair, 
And  much  improved,  as  I  believe, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laughed  at  care. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  303 

So  now,  from  idle  wishes  clear, 

I  make  the  good  I  may  not  find  ; 
Adown  the  stream  I  gently  steer, 

And  shift  my  sail  with  every  wind. 
And  half  by  nature,  half  by  reason, 

Can  still  with  pliant  heart  prepare, 
The  mind,  attuned  to  every  season, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 

Yet,  wrap  me  in  your  sweetest  dream, 

Ye  social  feelings  of  the  mind, 
Give,  sometimes  give,  your  sunny  gleam, 

And  let  the  rest  good  humour  find. 
Yes,  let  me  hail  and  welcome  give 

To  every  joy  my  lot  may  share, 
And  pleased  and  pleasing  let  me  live 

With  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


SONG, 

BY    THOMAS    MOORE,    ESQ. 

I'VE  roamed  through  many  a  weary  round, 

I've  wandered  east  and  west, 
Pleasure  in  every  clirne  I've  found, 

But  sought  in  vain  for  rest. 

While  glory  sighs  for  other  spheres, 

I  feel  that  one's  too  wide, 
And  think  the  home,  which  love  endears, 

Worth  all  the  world  beside. 

The  needle  thus  too  rudely  moved, 

Wanders  unconscious  where  ; 
'Till  having  found  the  place  it  loved, 

It  trembling  settles  there. 


304  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  RETURN. 

THE  palms  fling  down  their  shadows,  and  the  air 

Is  rich  with  breathings  of  the  citron  bloom  ; 

All  the  so  radiant  children  of  the  south, 

The  gold  and  silver  jessamines,  the  rose 

In  crimson  glory,  there  are  gathered  ; — sounds 

Of  music  too  from  waterfalls,  the  hymn 

The  bees  sing  to  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  feed ; 

The  earth  seems  in  its  infancy  ;  the  sky, 

The  fair  blue  sky,  is  glowing  as  the  hopes 

Of  childish  happiness  :  It  is  a  land 

Of  blossoming  and  sunshine. — One  is  here 

To  whom  the  earth  is  colourless,  the  heaven 

Clouded  and  cold  ; — his  heart  is  far  away  ; 

The  palms  have  not  to  him  the  majesty 

Of  his  own  land's  green  oaks;  the  roses  here 

Are  not  so  sweet  as  those  wild  ones  that  grow 

In  his  own  valley  ;  he  would  rather  have 

One  pale  blue  violet  than  all  the  buds 

That  Indian  suns  have  kissed  ;  his  heart  is  full 

Of  gentle  recollections,  and  those  thoughts, 

Which  can  but  hold  communion  with  themselves,. 

The  heart's  best  dreaming.     When  the  wanderer 

Calls  up  those  tender  memories,  which  are 

So  very  sweet  in  absence,  those  dear  links 

That  distance  cannot  sunder — come  there  not 

Such  visionings,  young  Evelin,  o'er  thy  soul  ? 

The  dwelling  of  thy  childhood,  the  dark  hill 

Above  thy  native  valley,  down  whose  side, 

Like  a  swift  arrow,  shot  the  foaming  stream, 

The  music  of  the  lark,  which  every  morn 

Waked  thy  light  slumber,  and  a  fairy  shape, 

Whose  starry  eyes  are  far  too  bright  for  tears, 

Though  tears  are  in  them,  and  whose  coral  lip 

Wears  still  its  spring-day  smile  ?  Although  *  Farewell,* 

That  saddest  of  sad  sounds,  is  lingering  there, 

Are  not  these  present  to  thee  ?    Evelin  was 

A  soldier,  and  he  left  his  home  with  all 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  305 

The  high  romance  of  youth.     Beloved,  and  well 
His  heart  repaid  that  love;  but  there  were  clouds, 
Low  worldly  clouds,  upon  Affection's  star : 
He  sought  to  clear  them — what  was  toil,  that  led 
To  fame,  to  fortune,  and  Elizabeth  ! 

There's  music  in  that  bower,  where  the  wild  rose 

Has  clung  about  the  ash, — such  plaining  tones 

As  the  winds  waken  !     There  a  harp  is  breathing, 

And  o'er  it  leans  its  mistress,  as  she  lived 

Upon  those  melancholy  sounds  ; — her  head 

Is  bent,  as  if  in  pain,  upon  those  strings, 

And  the  gold  shadows  of  her  long  hair  veil 

The  white  hand,  which  almost  unconsciously 

In  melody  is  wandering.     That  fair  hand 

Is  not  more  snowy  than  the  cheek  it  presses ; 

That  cheek  proclaims  the  history  of  the  heart — 

Tells,  that  across  the  bright  May  hours  of  youth 

Bleak  clouds  have  past,  and  left  behind  a  trace 

Bordering  on  sadness,  but  withal  so  sweet 

You  scarce  might  call  it  sorrow  ;  and  that  smile 

But  speaks  of  patient  mild  endurance,  soft 

And  kind  and  gentle  thoughts,  which  well  become 

A  breaking  heart,  whose  throbs  will  soon  be  still 

In  the  so  lonely  but  so  quiet  grave. 

Yes,  she  is  dying !     Though  so  young  and  fair, 

Her  days  are  numbered  ;  and  if  e'er  her  cheek 

Wears  the  rich  colour  it  once  had,  'tis  but 

The  sad  and  lovely  herald  of  decay, 

The  death  rose,  that  but  blossoms  on  the  tomb. 

(Her's  was  a  heart  which,  when  it  once  had  loved, 

Could  but  ill  brook  the  many  trembling  fears 

That  absent  love  must  know. — Her  fate  was  like 

A  star,  o'er  which  the  clouds  steal  one  by  one, 

Scarce  seen,  scarce  noticed,  till  the  sweet  light's  gone.) 

She  is  within  his  arms,  and  they  have  met ! 
Evelin  and  Elizabeth  ?     Yes.— A  flush 
Of  beautiful  delight  is  on  her  face  ; 

26* 


306  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

He  clasps  her  silently,  and  his  dark  eye 
Is  filled  with  tears.     Ah,  tears  like  these  are  worth 
A  life  of  smiles! — At  length  he  gently  says, 
'  Elizabeth,  my  own  love  !' — It  was  heaven 
To  think  that  she  again  could  hear  him  breathe 
That  dear,  dear  name  !     She  answereth  not,  but  lies 
Upon  his  bosom  motionless.     He  looks 
On  her  sweet  face — 'tis  fixed  and  pale  in  death  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


PARTING. 

BY    ISMAEL     FITZADAM. 

No,  never  other  lips  shall  press 

The  plighted  one  where  thine  hath  been ; 
Nor  ever  other  bosom  press 

The  heart  whereon  thy  head  did  lean. 
Oh,  never,  love !  though  after  this 

Thy  srnile  perchance  no  more  I  see, — 
The  very  memory  of  that  bliss 

Shall  keep  me  sacred  all  to  thee. 

Farewell,  farewell !  in  wo  or  weal, 

Though  worlds  may  interpose  to  sever, 
And  '  the  world's  law,'  I  wildly  feel, 

Thy  heart  and  mine  are  one  for  ever ! 
Farewell !  the  ripe  tear  fills  mine  eye — 

My  very  inmost  soul  is  riven  ! 
After  such  pang  'tis  light  to  die — 

Matilda,  we  shall  meet  in  heaven  ! 
Literary  Gazette, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  307 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ROSLIN. 

HARK  ! — 'twas  the  trumpet  rung ! — 

Commingling  armies  shout ! 
And,  glancing  far  these  woods  among, 

The  wreathing  standards  float ! 
The  voice  of  triumph,  and  of  wail, 

Of  victor,  and  of  vanquished,  joined, 
Is  wafted  on  the  vernal  gale  ; 

And  Echo  hath  combined 
Her  mimic  tones,  to  breathe  the  tale 

To  every  passing  wind. 

For  Saxon  foes  invade 

A  proud,  but  kingless,  realm  ; 
Oppression  draws  her  crimsoned  blade 

To  ruin,  and  o'erwhelm  : — 
'Tis  Confray,  on  destruction  bent, 

From  Freedom's  roll  to  blot  a  land, 
By  England's  haughty  Edward  sent ; 

But  never  on  her  mountain-strand 
Shall  Caledonia  sit  content, 

Content  with  fettered  hand  ! 

Not  while  one  patriot  breathes, — 

While  every  verdant  vale, 
And  mountain-side  bequeaths 

Some  old  heroic  tale  : 
The  Wallace  and  The  Bruce  have  thrown 

A  trail  of  glory  far  behind, 
The  heart,  to  youth  and  valour  known, 

With  giant  strength  to  bind  ; 
While  even  the  peasant,  toiling  lone, 

Recalls  their  deeds  to  mind. 

The  Cumin  leaves  not  home 

To  tell  a  bloodless  tale  ; 
And  forth,  in  arms,  with  Frnzer  roam 

The  flower  of  Teviotdale ; 


308  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

In  Roslin's  wild  and  wooded  glen, 

The  voice  of  war  the  shepherd  hears; 

And,  in  the  groves  of  Haw tnornd en, 
Are  thrice  ten  thousand  spears, 

Bright  as  the  cheek  of  Nature,  when 
May  morning  smiles  through  tears. 

Three  camps,  divided,  raise 

Their  snowy  tops  on  high  ; 
The  flag  unfurling  now  displays 

Its  lions  to  the  sky. 
The  tongue  of  mirth  is  jocund  there  ; 

Blithe  carols  hail  the  matin  light  ; 
Though  lurking  death,  and  gloomy  care, 

Are  watching,  in  despite, 
Bright  eyes  that  now  are  glancing  fair, 

Too  soon  to  close  in  night ! 

Baffled,  and  backward  borne, 

Is  England's  foremost  war  ! — 
The  Saxon  battle-god,  forlorn, 

Remounts  his  dragon-car  ! — 
A  third  time  warlike  cheers  are  raised 

Beneath  the  noon's  unclouded  sun  ; 
Upon  the  patriot  band  it  blazed, 

Saw  thrice  their  laurels  won, 
And  hung  o'er  Roslin's  vale  amazed, 

As  erst  o'er  Ajalon  ! 

Blue  Esk,  with  murmuring  stream, 

Romantic,  journeys  by 
Between  its  rocky  banks,  which  seem 

To  woo  the  summer  sky, 
With  beechen  groves,  and  oaken  boughs, 

And  bloomy  wild  shrubs,  fresh  and  fair  ; 
While  oft  the  pendent  willow  throws 

Its  locks  of  silver  hair 
Athwart  the  waters,  which  disclose 

Its  image  pictured  there. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  309 

Three  triumphs  in  a  day  ! 

Three  hosts  subdued  by  one  ! 
Three  armies  scattered  like  the  spray 

Beneath  one  summer  sun  ! — 
Who,  pausing  'mid  this  solitude, 

Of  rocky  streams,  and  leafy  trees, — 
Who,  gazing  o'er  this  quiet  wood, 

Would  ever  dream  of  these  ? 
Or  think  that  aught  might  here  intrude, 

Save  birds,  and  humming  bees  ? 

Roslin,  thy  castle  gray 

Survives  the  wrecks  of  time  ; 
And  proudly  towers  thy  dark  Abbaye, 

With  pinnacles  sublime  : — 
But,  when  thy  battlements  shall  sink, 

And,  like  a  vision,  leave  the  scene, — 
Here, — here,  when  daylight's  glories  shrink, 

On  sculptured  base  shall  lean 
The  patriot  of  the  land,  to  think 

Of  glories  that  have  been  ! 
BlackwoocTs  Magazine.  A 


EPITAPH  ON  COWPER. 

BY   LEIGH    HUNT. 

HERE,  where  thought  no  more  devours, 
Rests  the  poet  and  the  man  ; 

Life  with  all  its  subtle  powers, 
Ending  where  it  first  began. 

Stranger,  if  thou  lov'st  a  tear, 

Weep  thee  o'er  his  death  awhile  ; 

If  thine  eye  would  still  be  clear, 
Think  upon  his  life,  and  smile. 
Monthly  Mirror. 


310  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  PYTHONESS. 

BACK  she  flung 

The  gathered  darkness  of  her  raven  hair, 
And  bared  her  marble  brow,  as  she  would  turn 
An  unchecked  gaze  on  heaven ; — back  they  flowed, 
And,  as  beneath  a  mantle  did  she  move 
Within  their  shadow,  while  the  murmuring  wind 
Bearing  them  like  a  banner,  with  low  wail, 
Passed  through  those  long  black  locks.     Her  cheek  was 
And,  as  the  day  break  fell  upon  her  face, 
It  grew  still  paler.     One  whom  godless  spells 
Had  summoned  from  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
Would  wear  such  fixed  ghostliness  of  look — 
And,  in  her  eyes,  unearthly  lightening  dwelt, 
As  they  caught  from  the  stars,  with  which  she  held 
Communion  strange,  a  portion  of  their  fire. 
Her  form  was  wan  and  wasted,  as  the  soul 
Had  worn  its  fragile  dwelling  ;  when  she  raised 
Her  white  arms,  they  were  like  the  snowy  cloud, 
That,  half  dissolved,  hangs  on  a  moonlight  sky. 
She  stood  and  watched  the  morning ;  the  first  blush 
Of  young  Aurora  was  upon  the  east ; 
But,  when  the  chariot  of  the  sun-god  caught, 
Invisible  glory,  from  its  cloudy  hall, 
A  breath  of  fragrance  floated  on  the  air ; 
The  laurels  trembled,  though  the  wind  was  hushed, 
And  sounds,  faint,  but  most  musical,  swept  past. 
She  felt  the  influence  on  her,  and  her  cheek 
Grew  red  with  strong  emotion  ;  wilder  light 
Flashed  from  her  eyes  ;  and,  with  still  haughtier  step, 
She  prest  the  ground,  and  flung  her  arms  on  high. 
Bright  visions  were  before  her,  and  the  page 
Of  dim  futurity  was  opened,  and 
Years  yet  to  be,  were  pictured  on  her  soul 
In  all  their  varied  characters  of  fate. 
She  told  of  glorious  things,  of  victories, 
Of  crowns,  of  wealth  ;  and  then  came  deeper  tones 
Of  human  miseries,  battles,  famine,  death. 

Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine.  L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  311 


THE  WINTER  ROSE. 

HAIL,  and  farewell,  thou  lovely  guest ! 

I  may  not  woo  thy  stay, 
The  hues  that  paint  thy  glowing  vest 

Are  fading  fast  away, 
Like  the  retiring  tints  that  die 
At  evening  on  the  western  sky, 

And  melt  in  misty  gray. 

It  was  but  now  thy  radiant  smile 
Broke  through  the  season's  gloom, 

As  bending  I  inhaled  awhile 
Thy  breathing  of  perfume, 

And  traced  on  every  silken  leaf 

A  tale  of  summer,  sweet  and  brief, 
And  sudden  as  thy  doom. 

The  morning  sun  thy  petals  hailed 
New  from  their  mossy  cell ; 

At  eve  his  beam,  in  sorrow  veiled, 
Bade  thee  a  last  farewell ; 

To-morrow's  ray  shall  mark  the  spot 

Where,  loosened  from   their  fairy  knot, 
Thy  withering  beauties  fell. 

Alas  !  on  thy  forsaken  stem 
My  heart  shall  long  recline, 

And  mourn  the  transitory  gem, 
And  make  the  story  mine  ! 

So  on  my  joy  less  winter  hour 

Has  oped  some  fair  and  fragrant  flower 
With  smile  as  soft  as  thine. 

Like  thee  the  vision  came,  and  went, 
Like  thee  it  bloomed  and  fell, 

In  momentary  pity  sent 
Of  fairer  climes  to  tell ; 


312  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

So  frail  its  form,  so  short  its  stay, 

That  nought  the  lingering  heart  could  say, 

But,  hail,  and  fare  thee  well ! 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


THE  DRINKING  SONG  OF  MUNICH. 

WRITTEN    IN    GERMANY,    IN    1800. 

SWEET  Iser,  were  thy  sunny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm 

To  prop  the  tender  vine  ; 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill ; 

And,  under  every  myrtle  bower, 
My  gay  companions  should  prolong 
The  laugh,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 

To  many  an  idle  hour. 

Like  rivers  crimsoned  with  the  beam 

Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight ! 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart, 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart ; 

For  wine  can  triumph  over  wo  ; 
And  Love  and  Bacchus  (brother  powers) 
Should  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bovvers, 

A  paradise  below. 

[This  little  poem  has  been  given  to  the  Editor  as  an  early 
and  unpublished  effusion  of  a  celebrated  and  virtuous  living  Poet.] 


THE  POETICAL  ALBUM.         313 

LINES 

WRITTEN    BENEATH    THE    HEAD    OF    TYRT.EUS. 

GLORIOUS  Bard  !  whose  Lyre  was  heard 
Amid  the  armed  ring, 
As  victory  were  upon  each  word 
And  death  on  every  string  ! — 
Glorious  Bard  !  to  whom  belong 
Wreaths  not  often  claimed  by  song, — 
Those  hung  round  the  warrior's  shield — 
Laurels  from  the  blood-red  field. 
The  soldier  cowered  beneath  his  tent, 
His  sword  all  rust,  his  bow  unbent ; 
His  comrades,  who  had  dared  to  die, 
Unburied  on  the  plain, 
And,  jeered  by  mocking  foemen  nigh, 
He  dared  not  taunt  again. 
The  Bard  took  up  his  burning  song ; 
Each  heart  beat  high,  each  arm  grew  strong : 
He  told  them  of  the  curse  and  shame 
That  darken  round  the  coward's  name  ; 
Told  how  the  mother's  cheek  would  burn 
To  hear  her  son  had  fled, 
How  the  young  maiden's  smile  would  turn 
To  tears,  should  it  be  said, — 
*  The  war  strength  of  thy  lover's  brand 
Is  weaker  than  thine  own  fair  hand  ;' 
And  proudly  rung  his  harp  while  telling 
The  fallen  warrior's  fame, 
When  trumpet,  shout  and  song  are  swelling 
All  glorious  with  his  name. 
It  was  enough. — Each  sword  was  out, 
The  mountains  trembled  in  the  shout 
Of  men  prepared  like  men  to  die 
For  Sparta  and  for  victory  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 

27 


314  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


BALAK  AND  BALAAM. 

UPON  the  hill  the  Prophet  stood  ; 
King  Balak  in  the  rocky  vale, 
Around  him,  like  a  fiery  flood, 
Flashed  to  the  Sun  his  men  of  mail. 

'Twas  Morn  ; — 'twas  Noon  ; — the  sacrifice 
Still  rolled  its  sheeted  flame  to  Heaven  ; 
Still  on  the  prophet  turned  their  eyes, 
Nor  yet  the  fearful  '  CURSE'  was  given. 

'Twas  Eve  ; — the  flame  was  feeble  now. 
Dried  was  the  victim's  purple  blood  ; 
The  Sun  was  rushing  broad  and  low 
Upon  the  murmuring  multitude. 

'Now  Curse,  or  die' — The  gathering  roar 
Around  him,  like  a  tempest,  came  ; 
Again  the  altar  streamed  with  gore  ; 
And  blushed  again  the  sky  with  flame. 

The  Prophet  was  in  prayer  ;  he  rose, 
His  mantle  from  his  face  he  flung  ; 
He  listened,  where  the  mighty  foes 
To  Heaven  their  evening  anthem  sung. 

He  saw  their  camp,  like  endless  clouds, 
Mixed  with  the  horizon's  distant  blue  ; 
Saw  on  the  plain  their  marshalled  crowds  ; 
Heard  the  high  strain  their  trumpets  blew. 

A  sudden  spirit  on  him  came, 

A  sudden  fire  was  in  his  eye  ; 

His  tongue  was  touched  with  hallowed  flame, 

The  'Cursor'  swelled  with  prophecy. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


315 


*  How  shall  I  curse  whom  God  hath  blessed  ? 
With  whom  he  dwells,  with  whom  shall  dwell  1' 
He  clasped  his  pale  hands  on  his  breast, 

<  Then,  be  thou  blest,  O  Israel !' 

*  Be  Israel  cursed,'  was  in  his  soul, 
But  on  his  lip  the  wild  words  died  ; 
He  paused,  till  on  its  myriads  stole 
The  night ;  again  the  *  Curse'  he  tried. 

A  whirlwind  from  the  desert  rushed, 
Deep  thunder  echoed  round  the  hill ; 
King,  prophet,  multitude,  were  hushed  ; 
The  thunder  sank,  the  blast  was  still ! 

Broad  in  the  East  a  new-born  STAR 
On  cloud,  hill,  desert,  poured  its  blaze  ! 
The  prophet  knew  the  SIGN  afar, 
And  on  it  fixed  his  shuddering  gaze. 

1 1  shall  behold  it,  but  not  now  ! 

I  shall  behold  him,  but  not  nigh  ! 

He  comes  to  break  the  Oppressor's  bow, 

To  triumph,  suffer,  weep  and  die  ! 

*  All  power  is  in  his  hand  ;  the  world 
Is  dust  beneath  his  trampling  heel ; 
The  thunder  from  his  lips  is  hurled, 
The  Heavens  beneath  his  presence  reel. 

'He  comes,  a  stranger  to  his  own  ! 
With  the  wild  bird  and  fox  he  lies — 
The  King  !  who  makes  the  stars  his  throne, 
A  wanderer  lives — an  outcast  dies  ! 

1  Proud  Israel  !  o'er  thy  diadem 
What  blood  shall  for  his  blood  be  poured  ! 
Until  that  Star  again  shall  beam, 
Again  JEHOVAH  be  the  Lord !' 


316  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

The  Prophet  ceased  in  awe ;  the  STAR 
Rose  broader  o'er  the  boundless  plain, 
Flashing  on  Balak's  marshalled  war, 
On  mighty  Israel's  farthest  vane. 

And  sweet  and  solemn  echoes  flowed 
From  lips  of  more  than  mortals  given  ; 
Till  in  the  central  cope  it  glowed, 
Then  vanished  in  the  heights  of  Heaven  ! 
New  Times.  PULCI. 


THE  EYE. 

WHAT  is  the  little  lurking  spell 

That  hovers  round  the  eye  ? 
Without  a  voice,  a  word  can  tell 

The  feelings  as  they  fly. 

When  tearless — it  can  speak  of  wo  ; 

When  weeping — still  the  same  ; 
Or  in  a  moment,  catch  the  glow 

Of  thoughts  without  a  name. 

Can  beam  with  pity  on  the  poor — 

With  anger  on  the  proud 
Can  tell  that  it  will  much  endure — 

Or  flash  upon  the  crowd  ! 

Now  brightly  raised,  or  now  depressed 

With  every  shade  of  feeling — 
It  is  the  mirror  of  the  breast — 

The  thought,  the  soul  revealing  ! 

Oh  !  tones  are  false — and  words  are  weak — 

The  tutored  slaves  at  call — 
The  eye — the  eye  alone  can  speak — 

Unfettered— tell  us  all !  J. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  317 

THE  CUP  OF  CIRCE. 

All  have  drank  of  the  cup  of  the  enchantress. 

SHE  sat  a  crowned  Queen — the  ruby's  light 
Gleamed  like  a  red  star  on  the  dark  midnight 
Ann'd  her  curls;  but  as  they  downward  fell 
To  meet  her  ivory  neck's  luxuriant  swell, 
Some  roses  twined  around  the  flowing  hair — 
Fair  roses — yet  her  neck  was  far  more  fair  : 
They  were  in  summer  perfume,  and  they  gave 
Fresh  fragrance  forth  at  each  light  tress's  wave. 
Her  cheek  was  crimson  beauty,  and  her  eye 
Flashed  light  upon  its  varying  brilliancy. 
There  was  a  spell  in  those  dark  eyes,  and  all 
Bent  joyfully  beneath  its  radiant  thrall : 
Their  power  was  on  the  heart.     One  white  hand  raised 
A  sparkling  vase,  where  gold  and  opals  blazed 
Only  less  glorious  than  their  starry  eyes; 
(How  sweet  the  incensed  breathings  that  arise 
From  that  enchanted  cup  !)  and  she  the  while 
Held  the  bright  poison  with  a  witching  smile. 
All  gathered  round.     I  marked  a  fair  child  stop 
And  kiss  the  purple  bubbles  from  the  top  ; 
A  white  haired  man,  too,  hung  upon  the  brim — 
Oh  !  that  such  pleasure  should  have  charms  for  him — 
And  by  his  side  a  girl,  whose  blue  eyes,  bent 
On  the  seducer,  looked  too  innocent 
For  passion's  madness  ; — but  love's  soul  was  there — 
And  for  young  love  what  will  not  woman  dare ! 
There  was  a  warrior — oh,  the  chain  was  sweet 
That  bound  him  prisoner  to  the  Circe's  feet : 
He  knelt  and  gazed  upon  her  beauty  ;   she 
Smiled,  and  received  his  wild  idolatry  ; 
Then  sighed  that  low  sweet  sigh,  whose,tender  tone 
Is  witching,  from  its  echo  of  our  own. 
The  painter's  skill  has  seized  a  moment  where 
Her  hand  is  wreathing  mid  his  raven  hair: 
27* 


318  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  he  is  bent  in  worship,  as  that  touch, 
That  soft  light  touch  were  ecstasy  too  much. 
He  is  just  turned  from  that  bewildering  face 
To  the  fair  arm  that  holds  the  magic  vase — 
The  purple  liquor  is  just  sparkling  up — 
The  youth  has  pledged  his  heart's  truth  in  that  cup  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM. 
BY    WALTER    PATERSON,    ESa. 

I  CANNOT  stain  this  snowy  leaf 
Without  a  sigh  of  pensive  grief! 
As  musing  on  my  days  gone  by, 
And  those  that  still  before  me  lie, 
I  read  a  mournful  emblem  here, 
That  few  could  read  without  a  tear ! 
For,  as  my  musing  eyes  I  cast, 
Upon  the  pages  that  are  past, 
I  search  them  all,  but  search  in  vain 
To  find  even  one  without  a  stain  ! 
But  what  has  been,  is  not  to  be, — 
The  happy  future  yet  is  free  ; 
Far  as  my  forward  eye  can  go, 
The  future  still  is  white  as  snow  ; 
So  free  from  stains,  so  free  from  cares, 
The  tainted  past  it  half  repairs  ! 
It  is  a  goodly  sight !  but  oh  ! 
Too  well  within  this  heart  I  know 
That  this  fair  future,  at  the  last, 
Shall  be  itself  the  tainted  past. 
Blackwootfs  Magazine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  319 

AMOR  PATRLE. 

WRITTEN    ABROAD. 

THOUGH  from  his  native  land  afar 

His  step  the  Briton  bends ; 
Still  there  his  country's  glories  are, 

And  are  to  him  as  friends. 

There  they  protect  him  ; — there  they  seem 

A  mantle  o'er  him  spread, — 
A  guardian  spell — a  sacred  beam, 

A  radiance  'round  his  head. 

In  every  clime,  at  every  hour, 

He  walks  in  England's  fame  ; 
Safe  in  the  shelter  of  her  power, 

And  honoured  in  her  name. 

Or  borne  o'er  ocean,  as  the  keels 

Divide  the  sparkling  foam, 
That  boundless  main,  he  proudly  feels, 

Is  yet  a  Briton's  home. 

For  to  the  world's  remotest  shore, 

Old  Albion's  deeds  are  known  ; 
And  till  its  white  waves  roll  no  more, 

Shall  ocean  seem  her  own. 

Then  must  the  Briton,  though  he  strays 

O'er  distant  seas  or  earth, 
Find  reason  yet  to  love  and  praise 

The  land  that  gave  him  birth. 
The  Council  of  Ten. 


320          THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 


THE  WHITE  HORSE  OF  WHARFDALE. 


A    TRADITIONAL    TALE. 

0  SISTERS,  hasten  we  on  our  way, 
The  Wharf  is  wide  and  strong  ! 

Our  father  alone  in  his  hall  will  say, 

'  My  daughters  linger  long.' 
Yet,  tarry  awhile  in  the  yellow  moonlight, 
And  each  shall  see  her  own  true  night, 
For  now  in  her  boat  of  an  acorn-shell 

The  fairy  queen  may  he, 
She  dives  in  a  water-spider's  bell 

To  keep  her  revelry  : 
We'll  drop  a  thistle's  beard  in  the  tide — 
'Twill  serve  for  bridles  when  fairies  ride  ; 
And  she  who  shall  first  her  White  Horse  see 
Shall  be  the  heiress  of  Bethmeslie.' 

Then  Jeannette  spoke  with  her  eyes  of  light — 
'  O  if  I  had  fairy  power, 

1  would  change  this  elm  to  a  gallant  knight, 

And  this  gray  rock  to  a  bower  : 
Our  dwelling  should  be  behind  a  screen 
Of  blossoming  alders  and  laurustine  ; 
Our  hives  should  tempt  the  wild  bees  all, 

And  the  swallows  love  our  eaves, 
For  the  eglantine  should  tuft  our  wall 

And  cover  their  nests  with   leaves  : 
The  spindle's  wool  should  lie  unspun, 
And  our  larnbs  lie  safe  in  the  summer-sun, 
While  the  merry  hells  ring  for  my  knight  and  me, 
Farewell  to  the  halls  of  Bethmeslie  !' 

Then  Annot  shook  her  golden  hair — 

'  If  I  had  power  and  will, 
These  rocks  should  change  to  marble  rare, 

And  the  oaks  should  leave  the  hill, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  321 

To  build  a  dome  of  prouder  height 
Than  ever  yet  rose  in  the  morning  light  ; 
And  every  one  of  these  slender  reeds 

Should  be  a  page  in  green, 
To  lead  and  deck  my  berry-brown  steeds, 

And  call  my  greyhounds  in  ; 
These  lilies  all  should  be  ladies  gay, 
To  weave  the  pearls  for  my  silk  array, 
And  none  but  a  princely  knight  should  see 
Smiles  in  the  lady  of  Bethmeslie.' 

Then  softly  said  their  sister  May — 

*  I  would  ask  neither  spell  nor  wand  ; 
For  better  I  prize  this  white  rose-spray 

Plucked  by  my  father's  hand  : 
And  little  I  heed  the  knight  to  see 
Who  seeks  the  heiress  of  Bethmeslie  ! 
Yet  would  I  give  one  of  these  roses  white 

If  the  fairy  queen  would  ride 
Safe  o'er  this  flood  ere  the  dead  of  night, 

And  bear  us  by  her  side. 
And  then  with  her  wing  let  her  lift  the  latch 
Of  my  father's  gate,  and  his  slumbers  watch, 
And  touch  his  eyes  with  her  glow-worm-gleams 
Till  he  sees  and  blesses  us  in  his  dreams.' 

The  night-winds  howled  o'er  Bolton  Strid,* 

The  flood  was  dark  and  drear, 
But  through  it  swam  the  Fairy-queen's  steed 

The  lady  May  to  bear  } 

And  that  milk-white  steed  was  seen  to  skim 
Like  a  flash  of  the  moon  on  the  water's  brim. 
The  morning  came,  and  the  winds  were  tame, 

The  flood  slept  on  the  shore  ; 
But  the  sisters  three  of  Bethmeslie 

Returned  to  its  hall  no  more. 

*  Coleridge  and  Rogers  have  made  this  Strid  famous,  and  the 
White  Horse  is  still  expected  to  rise  on  the  Wharf  near  it,  when 
travellers  are  drowning. 


322  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Now  under  the  shade  of  its  ruined  wall 
A  thorn  grows  lonely,  bare  and  tall. 
Arid  there  is  a  weak  and  weeping  weed 
Seems  on  its  rugged  stem  to  feed  : 
The  shepherds  sit  in  the  green  recess, 
And  call  them  Pride  and  Idleness, 
But  there  is  the  root  of  a  white  rose-tree 
Still  blooms  at  the  gate  of  JBethmeslie. 

Wo  to  the  maid  that  on  morn  of  May 

Shall  see  that  White  Horse  rise  ! 
The  hope  of  her  heart  shall  pass  away 

As  the  foam  of  his  nostril  flies, 
Unless  to  her  father's  knee  she  brings 
The  white  rose-tree's  first  offerings. — 
There  is  no  dew  from  summer-skies 
Has  power  like  the  drop  from  a  father's  eyes  ; 
And  if  on  her  cheek  that  tear  of  bliss 
Shall  mingle  with  his  holy  kiss, 
The  bloom  of  her  cheek  shall  blessed  be 
As  the  Fairy's  rose  of  Bethmeslie. 
European  Magazine.  V. 


ON  A   TIME  PIECE, 

ORNAMENTED    WITH    A    BUST    OF    THOMSON. 

To  teach  old  Time  an  equal  pace, 

Should  be  the  Artist's  care  ; 
But  every  Season  speeds  his  race, 

If  Thomson's  Lyre  is  there  ! 

Fond  workman  ! — Humbler  minstrelsy 

Might  regulate  thy  chime  ; 
The  bard  of  immortality 

Need  take  no  note  of  Time. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  323 

CONSOLATION. 

TO    A    FRIEND    ON    THE    LOSS    OF    HIS    CHILD. 

NOT  every  bud  that  grows 
Shall  bloom  into  a  flower  : 
Not  every  hope  that  glows 
Shall  have  its  prospering  hour: 
A  blight  the  bud  may  sever, 
The  hope  be  quenched  for  ever. 

In  every  joy  there  lurks 
An  impulse  of  decay  : 
With  silent  speed  it  works, 
While  all  without  is  gay  ; 
Kre  yet  we  dream  of  ruin, 
The  breach  is  past  renewing. 

Yet,  like  the  bending  bough 
From  some  dead  weight  released, 
The  spirits  bound,  we  know  not  how, 
When  wo's  first  press  hath  ceased  ; 
But  this  may  ne'er  be  spoken 
Of  heart  or  bough  that's  broken. 

There  is  a  pulse  in  man 
That  will  not  throb  to  grief; 
Let  wo  do  all  it  can, 
That  pulse  will  bring  relief: 
We  feel,  though  self-accusing, 
That  pulse  its  balm  diffusing. 

Since  human  hopes  are  vain, 
And  joy  remaineth  not, 
'Tis  well  that  human  pain 
When  dealt,  is  thus  forgot. 
The  smile  shall  leave  no  traces  : 
The  tear  itself  effaces. 


324  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Then,  if  apart  from  all 
Thou  sheddest  still  the  tear, 
Too  early  doomed  to  fall 
Warm  on  thine  infant's  bier, 
War  not  with  nature's  sorrow, 
For  peace  will  come  to-morrow. 

Or  should  reviving  peace 
E'en  now  be  kindly  given, 
Oh  !  suffer  wo  to  cease, 
And  thank  indulgent  heaven, 
That  breathes  the  breath  of  healing 
On  wounds  of  deepest  feeling. 
London  Magazine. 


MELROSE   ABBEY. 

WHAT  Spirit  fills  this  holy  place  ? 

Is  it  Religion's  mystic  torch 
That  sheds  a  more  than  mortal  grace 

On  fractured  arch  and  ruined  porch  ? 

Beneath  this  sky-light  dome  hath  prayed 
The  heroes  of  the  stormy  ages  ; 

And  here  their  noble  dust  is  laid, 

Commingled  with  the  saint's  and  sage's. 

Untold  thy  strongest  charm  remains — 
A  poet  found  thy  secret  powers, 

Rebuilt  thee  by  his  heavenly  strains, 
And  wrapt  in  glory  all  thy  towers. 

Now  see  we  but  what  lie  hath  told  : 
His  Spirit  fills  t^iis  mighty  shrine  : 

Restores  the  lost,  renews  the  old  : — 
Hia  immortality  is  thine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  325 


MARIUS   AMONGST  THE  RUINS  OF   CARTHAGE. 

Marius,  during  the  time  of  his  exile,  seeking  refuge  in  Africa, 
had  landed  at  Carthage  ;  when  an  officer,  sent  hy  the  Roman 
Governor  of  Africa,  came,  and  thus  addressed  him — '  Marius, 
I  come  from  the  Prsetor  bextilius,  to  tell  you,  that  he  forbids 
3'ou  to  set  foot  in  Africa.  If  you  obey  not,  he  will  support 
the  Senate's  decree,  and  treat  you  as  a  public  enemy.'  Ma- 
rius,  upon  hearing  this,  was  struck  dumb  with  grief  and  indig- 
nation. He  uttered  not  a  word  for  some  time,  but  regarded 
the  officer  with  a  menacing  aspect.  At  length,  the  officer  en- 
quired what  answer  he  should  carry  to  the  Governor?  'Go 
and  tell  him,'  said  the  unfortunate  man,  with  a  sigh,  '  that  thou 
hast  seen  the  exiled  Marius  sitting  among  the  ruins  of  Carth- 
age.' PLUTARCH. 

'TWAS  noon — and  Afric's  dazzling  sun  on  high, 
With  fierce  resplendence  filled  the  unclouded  eky  ; 
No  zephyr  waved  the  palm's  majestic  head, 
And  smooth  alike  the  seas  and  deserts  spread  ; 
While,  desolate,  beneath  a  blaze  of  light, 
Silent  and  lonely,  as  at  dead  of  night, 
The  wreck  of  Carthage  lay  ; — her  prostrate  Fanes 
Had  strewed  their  precious  marble  o'er  the  plains  ; 
Dark  weeds  and  grass  the  column  had  o'ergrown, 
The  lizard  basked  upon  the  altar-stone  ; 
'Whelmed  by  the  ruins  of  their  own  abodes 
Had  sunk  the  forms  of  heroes  and  of  gods  ; 
While  near — dread  offspring  of  the  burning  day — 
Coiled,  'midst  forsaken  halls,  the  serpent  lay. 

There  came  an  exile,  long  by  fate  pursued, 
To  shelter  in  that  awful  solitude. 
Well  did  that  wanderer's  high,  yet  faded  mien, 
Suit  the  sad  grandeur  of  the  desert  scene  ; 
Shadowed,  not  veiled,  by  locks  of  wintry  snow, 
Pride  sat,  still  mighty,  on  his  furrowed  brow  ; 
Time  had  not  quenched  the  terrors  of  his  eye, 
Nor  tamed  his  glance  of  fierce  ascendency ; 
While  the  deep  meaning  of  his  features  told, 
Ages  of  thought  liad  o'er  his  spirit  rolled, 
Nor  dimmed  the  fire  that  might  not  be  controlled  : 
28 


326  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

And  still  did  power  invest  his  stately  form, 

Shattered,  but  yet  unconquered,  by  the  storm. 

But  slow  his  step — and  where,  not  yet  overthrown. 

Still  towered  a  pillar,  'midst  the  waste  alone  ; 

Faint  with  long  toil,  his  weary  limbs  he  laid, 

To  slumber  in  its  solitary  shade. 

He  slept — and  darkly  on  his  brief  repose, 

The  indignant  Genius  of  the  scene  arose. 

Clouds  robed  his  dim,  unearthly  form,  and  spread 

Mysterious  gloom  around  his  crownless  head — 

Crownless,  but  regal  still. — With  stern  disdain, 

The  kingly  shadow  seemed  to  lift  his  chain, 

Gazed  on  the  palm,  his  ancient  sceptre  torn, 

And  his  eye  kindled  with  immortal  scorn! 

'  And  sleep'st  thou,  Roman  ?'  cried  his  voice  austere  ; 

*  Shall  son  of  Latium  find  a  refuge  here  ? 

Awake  !  arise  !  to  speed  the  hour  of  fate, 

When  Rome  shall  fall,  as  Carthage,  desolate! 

Go  !  with  her  children's  flower,  the  free,  the  brave, 

People  the  silent  chambers  of  the  grave  ; 

So  shall  the  course  of  ages  yet  to  be, 

More  swiftly  waft  the  day,  avenging  me  ! 

'Yes !  from  the  awful  gulph  of  years  to  come, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  prophecies  her  doom  ; 
I  see  the  trophies  of  her  pride  decay, 
And  her  long  line  of  triumphs  pass  away, 
Lost  in  the  depths  of  time — while  sinks  the  star 
That  led  her  march  of  heroes  from  afar  ! 

*Lo  !  from  the  frozen  forests  of  the  North, 
The  sons  of  slaughter  pour  in  myriads  forth  ! 
Who  shall  awake  the  mighty? — Will  thy  wo, 
City  of  thrones  !  disturb  the  realms  below  ? 
Call  on  the  dead  to  hear  thee !  let  thy  cries 
Summon  their  shadowy  legions  to  arise, 
Array  the  ghosts  of  conquerors  on  thy  walls ! 
— Barbarians  revel  in  their  ancient  halls! 
And  their  lost  children  bend  the  subject-knee, 
'Midst  the  proud  tombs  and  trophies  of  the  free  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  327 

'  Bird  of  the  sun  !  dread  eagle!  born  on  high, 
A  creature  of  the  empyreal — Thou,  whose  eye 
Was  lightening  to  the  earth — whose  pinion  waved, 
In  haughty  triumph,  o'er  a  world  enslaved  ; 
Sink  from  thy  heavens  !  for  glory's  noon  is  o'er, 
And  rushing  storms  shall  bear  thee  on  no  more  ! 
Closed  is  thy  regal  course — thy  crest  is  torn, 
And  thy  plume  banished  from  the  realms  of  morn. 
The  shaft  hath  reached  thee— rest  with  chiefs  and  kings, 
Who  conquered  in  the  shadow  of  thy  wings  ! 
Sleep  !  while  thy  foes  exult  around  their  prey, 
And  share  thy  glorious  heritage  of  day  ! 

'  But  darker  years  shall  mingle  with  the  past, 
And  deeper  vengeance  shall  be  mine  at  last. 
O'er  the  seven  hills  I  see  destruction  spread, 
And  empire's  widow  veils  with  dust  her  head! 
Her  gods  forsake  each  desolated  shrine, 
Her  temples  moulder  to  the  earth,  like  mine ; 
'Midst  fallen  palaces  she  sits  alone, 
Calling  heroic  shades  from  ages  gone, 
Or  bids  the  nations,  'midst  her  deserts  wait, 
To  learn  the  fearful  oracles  of  fate. 

'  Still  sleep's!  thou,  Roman  ?  Son  of  victory  !  rise  ! 
Wake  to  obey  the  avenging  destinies! 
Shed  by  thy  mandate,  soon  thy  country's  blood 
Shall  swell  and  darken  Tiber's  yellow  flood. 
My  children's  names  call — awake  !  prepare 
The  feast  they  claim — exult  in  Rome's  despair  ! 
Be  thine  ear  closed  against  her  suppliant  cries; 
Bid  thy  soul  triumph  in  her  agonies  ! 
Let  Carnage  revel  e'en  her  shrines  among! 
Spare  not  the  valiant !  pity  not  the  young  ! 
Haste  !  o'er  her  hills  the  sword's  libation  shed, 
And  wreak  the  curse  of  Carthage  on  her  head !' 

The  vision  flies — a  mortal  step  is  near, 
Whose  echoes  vibrate  on  the  slutnhcrer's  ear  : 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 

He  starts,  he  wakes  to  wo — before  him  stands 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  harsh  commands, 
Whose  faltering  accents  bid  the  exiled  chief 
Seek,  far  on  other  shores,  a  home  for  grief. 

Silent  the  wanderer  sat — but  on  his  cheek 
The  burning  glow,  far  more  than  words  might  speak  ; 
And,  from  the  kindling  of  his  eye,  there  broke 
Language,  where  all  the  indignant  soul  awoke, 
Till  his  deep  thought  found  voice — then,  calmly  stern, 
And  sovereign  in  despair,  he  cried,  'Return  ! 
Tell  him  who  sent  thee  hither,  thou  hast  seen 
Marius  the  exile  rest  where  Carthage  once  hath  been  !' 
Constable's  Edinburgh  Magazine. 


LOVE'S  LAST  WORDS. 

LIGHT  be  around  thee,  hope  be  thy  guide  ; 
Gay  be  thy  bark,  and  smooth  be  the  tide  ; 
Soft  be  the  wind  that  beareth  thee  on, 
Sweet  be  thy  welcome,  thy  wanderings  done. 

Bright  be  the  hearth,  may  the  eyes  you  love  best 
Greet  the  long-absent  again  to  his  rest ; 
Be  thy  life  like  glad  music,  which  floateth  away 
As  the  gale  lingering  over  the  rose-tree  in  May. 

But  yet  while  thy  moments  in  melody  roll, 

Be  one  dark  remembrance  left  on  thy  soul, 

Be  the  song  of  the  evening  thrice  sad  on  thine  ear — 

Then  think  how  your  twilights  were  past  away  here. 

And  yet  let  the  shadow  of  sorrowing  be 
Light  as  the  dream  of  the  morning  to  thee ! 
One  fond,  faint  recollection,  one  last  sigh  of  thine 
May  be  granted  to  love  so  devoted  as  mine ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  329 

ERATO, 

FROM    A    PAINTING    BY    J.     STOTHARD. 

GENTLEST  one,  I  bow  to  thee, 
Rose-lipped  queen  of  poesy, 
Sweet  ERATO,  thou  whose  chords 
Waken  but  for  love-touched  words  ! 
Never  other  crown  be  mine 
Than  a  flower-linked  wreath  of  thine  ; 
Green  leaves  of  the  laurel  tree 
Are  for  bards  of  high  degree  ; 
Better  rose  or  violet  suit 
With  thy  votary's  softer  lute. 
Not  thine  those  proud  lines  that  tell 
How  kings  ruled,  or  heroes  fell ; 
.But  that  low  and  honey  tone 
So  peculiarly  Love's  own  ; 
Music  such  as  the  night  breeze 
Wakens  from  the  willow  trees  ; 
Such  as  murmurs  from  the  shell, 
Wave-kissed  in  some  ocean  cell ; 
Tales  sweet  as  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Such  as  in  the  twilight  hours 
The  young  Bard  breathes ;  and  also  thine 
Those  old  memories  divine, 
Fables  Grecian  poets  sung 
When  on  Beauty's  lips  they  hung, 
Till  the  essenced  song  became 
Like  that  kiss,  half  dew,  half  flame. 
Thine  each  frail  and  lovely  thing, 
The  first  blossoms  of  the  spring  : 
Violets,  ere  the  sunny  ray 
Drinks  their  fragrant  life  away  ; 
Roses,  ere  their  crimson  breast 
Throws  aside  its  green  moss  vest ; 
Young  hearts,  or  ere  toil,  or  care, 
Or  gold,  has  loft  a  world-stain  there. 
28* 


330  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Thine,  too,  other  gifts  above, 
Every  sign  and  shape  of  love, 
Its  first  smile,  and  its  first  sigh, 
Its  hope,  its  despondency, 
Its  joy,  its  sorrow,  all  belong 
To  thy  dear  delicious  song. 
Fair  ERATO,  vowed  to  thee, 
If  a  lute  like  mine  may  be 
Offered  at  thy  myrtle  shrine, 
Lute  and  heart  and  song  are  thine. 
Broken  be  my  treasured  lute, 
Be  its  every  number  mute, 
Ere  a  single  chord  should  waken, 
If  by  thee  or  Love  forsaken. 
Gentlest  one,  I  bow  to  thee, 
Rose-lipped  queen  of  poesy  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


COMPARISON. 

BY    MRS.    JOHJ*    HUNTER. 

I  SAW  the  wild  rose  on  its  parent  thorn, 

Half-closed,  soft  blushing  through  the  glittering  dew, 
Wave  in  the  breeze  and  scent  the  breath  of  morn, 

Lelia,  the  lovely  flower  resembled  you. 

Scarce  had  it  spread  to  meet  the  orb  of  day, 
Its  fragrant  beauties  opening  to  the  view, 

When  ruffian  blasts  had  whirled  the  rose  away  ; 
Lelia,  alas  !  it  still  resembles  you. 

So  torn  by  wild  and  lawless  Passion's  force 

From  every  social  tie,  thy  lot  must  be ; 
At  best  oblivion  shades  thy  future  course, 

And  still  the  hapless  flower  resembles  thee. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  331 

THE   CAVES  OF  YORKSHIRE. 

BY     WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH,     ESQ. 


PURE  element  of  waters,  wheresoe'er 

Thou  dost  forsake  thy  subterranean  haunts, 

Green  herbs,  bright  flowers,  and  berry-bearing  plants, 

Start  into  life,  and  in  thy  train  appear ! 

And,  through  the  sunny  portion  of  the  year, 

Swift  insects  shine  thy  hovering  pursuivants, 

And,  if  thy  bounty  fail,  the  forest  pants, 

And  hart  and  hind,  and  hunter  with  his  spear, 

Languish  and  droop  together  !     Nor  unfelt 

In  man's  perturbed  soul  thy  sway  benign  ; 

And  haply  far  within  the  marble  belt 

Of  central  earth,  where  tortured  spirits  pine 

For  grace  and  goodness  lost,  thy  murmurs  melt 

Their  anguish,  and  they  blend  sweet  songs  with  thine  ! 

II. — MALHAM    COVE. 

Was  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  guile, 

When  giants  scooped  from  out  the  rocky  ground 

Tier  under  tier  this  semicerque  profound. 

Giants — the  same  who  built  in  Erin's  Isle 

That  Causeway  with  incomparable  toil ! 

Oh  !  had  the  Crescent  stretched  its  horns,  and  wound, 

With  finished  sweep,  into  a  perfect  round, 

No  mightier  work  had  gained  the  plausive  smile 

Of  all-beholding  Phrebus  !  but,  alas! 

Vain  earth  !  false  world  !     Foundations  must  be  laid 

In  heaven  ;  for,  'mid  the  wreck  of  is  and  WAS, 

Things  incomplete,  and  purposes  betrayed, 

Make  sadder  transits  o'er  truth's  mystic  glass, 

Than  noblest  objects  utterly  decayed  ! 


332  THE    POETICAL    ALBUM. 


III. GORDALE. 

At  early  dawn,  or  when  the  warmer  air 
Glimmers  with  fading  light,  and  shadowy  eve 
Is  busiest  to  confer  and  to  bereave, 
At  either  moment  let  thy  feet  repair 
To  Gordale  chasm,  terrific  as  the  lair 
Where  the  young  lion's  couch  ;  for  then,  by  leave 
Of  the  propitious  hour,  thou  rnayest  perceive 
The  local  Deity,  with  oozy  hair 
And  mineral  crown,  beside  his  jagged  urn 
Recumbent ! — Him  thou  may'st  behold,  who  hides 
His  lineaments  from  day,  and  there  presides 
Teaching  the  docile  waters  how  to  turn ; 
Or  if  need  be,  impediment  to  spurn, 
And  force  their  passage  toward  the  salt  sea  tides. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


FRAGMENT. 

LOVE  once  dwelt  in  a  palmy  isle, 

His  palace  of  the  green  leaves'  shade, 
A     A  chain  of  rose  upon  his  wings, 

Whose  guardian  was  a  dark-eyed  Maid. 

They  lived  in  sweet  companionship  : 
Enough  for  him  one  smile  so  bright ; 

Enough  for  her  to  live  for  him, 

To  watch  his  chain,  to  keep  it  light. 

But  once  the  Nymph  lay  down  to  sleep, 

Leaving  her  fragrant  chain  undone  ; 
And  Love  awakened  while  she  slept, 
Shook  off  his  fetters,  and  was  gone. 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  333 

HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN. 

BY    MRS.    HEMANS. 

Henry  I.  (after  the  loss  of  Prince  William)  entertained  hopes, 
for  three  days,  that  his  son  had  put  into  some  distant  port  of 
England;  but  when  certain  intelligence  of  the  calamity  was 
brought  him,  he  fainted  away  ;  and  it  was  remarked,  that  he 
never  afterwards  was  seen  to  smile,  nor  ever  recovered  his 
wonted  cheerfulness.  HUME. 

THE  bark  that  held  a  Prince  went  down, 

The  sweeping  waves  rolled  on  ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 

To  him  that  wept  a  son  ? 
He  lived — for  life  may  long  be  borne 

Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain  ! 
Why  comes  not  death  to  those  that  mourn  ? — 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 

There  stood  proud  forms  around  his  throne, 

The  stately  and  the  brave  ; 
But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 

Tha.t  one  beneath  the  wave  ? 
Before  him  passed  the  young  and  fair 

In  pleasure's  reckless  train  ; 
But  seas  dashed  o'er  his  son's  bright  hair, 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 

He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round, 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing  ; 
He  saw  the  tourney's  victor  crowned 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring. 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Seemed  blent  with  every  strain, 
A  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 

Hearts,  in  that  time,  closed  o'er  the  trace 

Of  vows  once  fondly  poured, 
And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 

At  many  a  joyous  board. 


334  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Graves,  which  true  love  had  washed  with  tears 
Were  left  to  heaven's  bright  rain  ; 

Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  years — 
He  never  smiled  again  ! 


STANZAS 

EY    LORD    BYRON. 

AND  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  Lady,  speak  those  words  again  ! 
Yet,  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  ; 

I  would  not  give  thy  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad  ! — my  hopes  are  gone  !— 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  beam  of  peace 

Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine  ; 

And,  for  a  while  my  sorrows  cease 

To  know  that  heart  hath  felt  for  mine ! 

O  Lady !  blessed  be  that  tear, 

It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep ; 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 

To  those  whose  eyes  no  tears  may  steep. 

Sweet  Lady !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine  ! 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch — created  to  repine. 

Then  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 

Sweet  Lady  !  speak  those  words  again  ! 
Yet,  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so  ; 

I  would  not  give  thy  bosom  pain  ! 
New  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  335 

DERWENT-WATEIl  AND   SKIDDAW. 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

DEEP  stillness  lies  upon  this  lovely  lake. 

The  air  is  calm  :  the  forest  trees  are  still : 

The  river  windeth  without  noise,  and  here 

The  fall  of  fountains  comes  not,  nor  the  sound 

Of  the  white  cataract  Lodore:  The  voice — 

The  mighty  mountain  voice — itself  is  dumb. 

Only,  far  distant  and  scarce  heard,  the  dash 

Of  waters,  broken  by  some  boatman's  oar, 

Disturbs  the  golden  calm,  monotony. 

The  earth  seems  quiet,  like  some  docile  thing 

Obeying  the  blue  beauty  of  the  skies  ; 

And  the  soft  air,  through  which  the  tempest  ran 

So  lately  in  its  speed,  rebels  no  more  : 

The  clouds  are  gone,  which  but  this  morning  gloomed 

Round  the  great  Skiddaw  ;  and  he,  wide  revealed 

Outdurer  ofthe  storms,  now  sleeps  secure 

Beneath  the  watching  ofthe  holy  moon. 

But  a  few  hours  ago  and  sounds  were  heard 

Through  all  the  region  :  Rain  and  the  white  hail  sang 

Amongst  the  branches,  and  this  placid  lake 

Teased  into  mutiny  :  its  waves  (these  waves 

That  lie  like  shining  silver  motionless) 

Then  shamed  their  gentle  natures,  and  rose  up 

Lashing  their  guardian  banks,  and,  with  wild  cries 

Complaining,  called  to  all  the  echoes  round, 

And  answered  rudely  the  rude  winds,  which  then 

Cast  discord  in  the  waters,  until  they 

Amongst  themselves  waged  wild  and  glittering  war. 

Oh!  could  imagination  now  assume 

The  powers  it  lavished  in  the  by-gone  days 

On  Fauns  and  Naiads,  or  in  later  times 

Village  religion  or  wild  fable  flung 

O'er  sylphs  and  gnomes  and  fairies,  fancies  strange, 


336  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Here  would  I  now  compel  to  re-appear 

Before  me, — here,  upon  the  moon-lit  grass, 

Titania,  blue-eyed  queen,  brightest  and  first 

Of  all  the  shapes,  which  trod  the  emerald  rings 

At  midnight,  or  beneath  the  stars  drank  merrily 

The  wild-rose  dews,  or  framed  their  potent  charms: 

And  here  should  princely  Oberon,  sad  no  more, 

Be  seen  low  whispering  in  his  beauty's  ear, 

While  round  about  their  throne  the  fays  should  dance  ; 

Others  the  while,  tending  that  peerless  pair, 

Should  fill  with  odorous  juices  cups  of  flowers. — 

Here — yet  not  so  :  from  out  thy  watery  home, 

Deep  sunk  beneath  all  storms  and  billoAvs,  thou 

Should'st  not  be  torn  : — Sleep  in  thy  coral  cave, 

Lonely  and  unalarmed,  for  ever  sleep, 

White  Galatea  ! — for  thou  wast  indeed 

The  fairest  among  all  the  forms,  which  left 

Their  haunts, — the  gentle  air,  or  ocean  wide, 

River,  or  fount,  or  forest, — to  bestow 

High  love  on  man  ; — but,  rather  let  me  now 

From  these  so  witching  fancies  turn  away, 

Lest  I,  beguiled  too  far,  forget  the  scene 

Before  me,  bright  as  aught  in  fairy  land. 

Skiddaw  !  Eternal  mountain,  hast  thou  been 
Rocked  to  thy  slumber  by  the  howling  winds, 
Or  has  the  thunder  or  the  lightnings  Slue 
Scared  thee  to  quiet  ? — To  the  sounding  blast 
Thou  gavest  answer,  and  when  thou  didst  dash 
The  white  hail  in  its  puny  rage  aside, 
Thou  wast  not  dumb,  nor  to  the  rains  when  they 
Ran  trembling  from  thee  : — me  thou  auswercst  not. 

Art  thou  indignant  then,  or  hear  I  not? 
Or,  like  the  double-visaged  god  who  sate 
Within  the  Roman  temples,  dost  thou  keep 
High  watch  above  the  northern  floods  to  warn 
Lone  ships  from  erring,  while  thy  southern  front 
Is  sealed  in  sleep? — Thy  lofty  head  has  long 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  337 

Stood  up  an  everlasting  mark  to  all 
Who  wander  :  haply  now  some  wretch,  whose  bark 
Has  drifted  from  its  path  since  set  of  sun, 
Beholds  thee  shine,  and  kneeling  pours  his  soul 
In  thanks  to  heaven,  or  towards  his  cottage  home 
Shouts  amidst  tears,  or  laughter  sad  as  tears. 

— And  shall  I,  while  these  things  may  be,  complain  ? 
Never  :  in  silence  as  in  sound  them  art 
A  thing  of  grandeur;  and  throughout  the  year 
Thy  high  protecting  presence  (let  not  this 
Be  forgot  ever)  turns  aside  the  winds, 
Which  else  might  kill  the  flowers  of  this  sweet  vale. 
London  Magazine. 


FOR  MUSIC. 

THOU  art  looking  on  the  face  of  night,  my  love ! 
Is  not  yon  evening  star  bright,  my  love  ? 

Methinks  it  is 

A  world  of  bliss 
For  spirits  all  softness  and  light,  my  love  ! 

This  earth  is  so  chilled  with  care,  my  dear ! 
Would  we  might  wing  our  flight  there,  my  dear  ! 

For  love  to  blaze 

With  the  cloudless  rays 
It  would  have  in  a  world  so  fair,  my  dear ! 

But  my  wish  to  visit  that  star,  dear  love ! 
Is  vain  as  my  other  hopes  are,  dear  love  ! 

For  my  heart's  wild  sigh 

Of  idolatry 

Breathes  with  thcc  like  that  planet  afar,  dear  love ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 

29 


338  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


STANZAS. 

TWINE  not  those  roses  red  for  me, — 
Darker  and  sadder  my  wreath  must  be ; 
Mine  is  of  flowers  unkissed  by  the  sun, 
Flowers  that  died  as  the  Spring  begun. 
The  blighted  leaf  and  the  cankered  stem 
Are  what  should  form  my  diadem. 

Take  that  rose — it  is  nipt  by  the  blast ; 

That  lily — the  blight  has  over  it  past ; 

That  peach-bud — a  worm  has  gnawed  it  away; 

Those  violets — they  were  culled  yesterday  : 

Bind  them  with  leaves  from  the  dark  yew  tree, 

Then  come  and  offer  the  wreath  to  me. 

Let  every  flower  be  a  flower  of  Spring, 
But  on  each  be  a  sign  of  withering  ; 
Suited  to  me  is  the  drooping  wreath, 
With  colourless  hues  and  scentless  breath  ; 
Seek  ye  not  buds  of  brighter  bloom, 
Why  should  their  beauty  waste  on  the  tomb  ? 

I  am  too  young  for  death,  3^011  say : 

Fall  not  and  fade  not  the  green  leaves  in  May? 

Does  not  the  rose  in  its  light  depart? 

Needs  there  long  life  to  break  the  heart  ? 

I  have  felt  the  breath  of  the  deadly  power, — 

My  summons  is  come,  and  I  know  mine  hour! 

There  came  a  voice  to  my  sleeping  ear, 
With  words  of  sorrow  and  words  of  fear, 
Its  sound  was  the  roll  of  the  mountain  wave, 
Its  breath  was  damp  as  an  opening  grave  ; 
My  heart  grew  colder  at  every  word, 
For  I  knew  'twas  the  voice  of  death  I  heard ! 

It  summoned  me,  and  I  wept  to  die, — 
Oh,  fair  is  life  to  the  youthful  eye  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  339 

Time  may  come  with  his  shadowy  wing, 
But  who  can  think  on  Autumn  in  Spring  ? 
With  so  much  of  hope,  and  of  light,  and  of  hloom, 
Marvel  ye  that  I  shrunk  from  my  doom  ? 

My  tears  are  past, — the  grave  will  be 
Like  a  home  and  a  haven,  welcome  to  me ! 
I  have  marked  the  fairest  of  hopes  decay, 
Have  seen  love  pass  like  a  cloud  away, 
Seen  bloom  and  sweet  feelings  waste  to  a  sigh, 
Till  my  heart  has  sickened  and  wished  to  die. 

Falling  to  earth  like  a  shower  of  light, 
Yon  ash  tree  is  losing  its  blossoms  of  white  ; 
Ere  its  green  berries  are  coloured  with  red, 
1  shall  be  numbered  amid  the  dead. 
The  buds  that  are  falling  in  dust  will  lie 
A  prey  for  the  worms,  and  soon  shall  I ! 

Be  my  tomb  in  the  green  grass  mncle, 
There  let  no  white  tombstone  be  laid  ; 
All  my  monument  shall  be 
A  lonely  and  bending  cypress  tree, 
Drooping — just  such  as  should  lean  above 
One  who  lived  and  who  died  for  love  ! 
Literary  Gazette. 


EPITAPH. 

*  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum  ;' 
If  I  had  virtues  kindly  own  'em—- 
As human  nature  still  is  frail, 
Spread  o'er  my  faults  Oblivion's  veil, 
Remembering  this  command  from  heaven, 
Forget,  forgive,  and  be  forgiven. 


340  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

TO   THE  MOON. 

BY    JANE    TAYLOR. 

WHAT  is  it  that  gives  thee,  mild  Queen  of  the  Night, 

That  secret  intelligent  grace  ? 
Or  why  should  I  gaze  with  such  pensive  delight 

On  thy  fair, — but  insensible  face  ? 

What  gentle  enchantment  possesses  thy  beam, 

Beyond  the  warm  sunshine  of  day  ? 
Thy  bosom  is  cold  as  the  glittering  stream 

Where  dances  thy  tremulous  ray ! 

Canst  thou  the  sad  heart  of  its  sorrows  beguile  ! 

Or  grief's  fond  indulgence  suspend  ? 
Yet,  where  is  the  mourner  but  welcomes  thy  smile, 

And  loves  thee — almost  as  a  friend ! 

The  tear  that  looks  bright,  in  the  beam,  as  it  flows, 

Unmoved  dost  thou  ever  behold  ; — 
The  sorrow  that  loves  in  thy  light  to  repose, 

To  thee,  oft,  in  vain,  hath  been  told ! 

Yet  soothing  thou  art,  and  for  ever  I  find, 

Whilst  watching  thy  gentle  retreat, 
A  moonlight  composure  steal  over  my  mind, 

Poetical — pensive,  and  sweet ! 

I  think  of  the  years  that  for  ever  have  fled  ; — 

Of  follies— by  others  forgot ; — 
Of  joys  that  are  vanished — and  hopes  that  are  dead  ; 

And  of  friendships  that  were — and  are  not ! 

I  think  of  the  future,  still  gazing  the  while, 
As  though  thou'dst  those  secrets  reveal ; 

But  ne'er  dost  thou  grant  one  encouraging  smile, 
To  answer  the  mournful  appeal. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  341 

Thy  beams,  which  so  bright  through  my  casement  ap- 
To  far  distant  regions  extend ;  [pear, 

Illumine  the  dwellings  of  those  that  are  dear, 
And  sleep  on  the  grave  of  a  friend. 

Then  still  must  I  love  thee,  mild  Queen  of  the  Night ! 

Since  feeling  and  fancy  agree, 
To  make  thee  a  source  of  unfailing  delight, 

A  friend  and  a  solace  to  me  ! 


ON  THE  ROYAL  INFANT, 

STILL     BORN     NOVEMBER     6,    1817. 
BY   JAMES    MONTGOMERY,   EStt. 

A  THRONE  on  earth  awaited  thee, 
A  nation  longed  to  see  thy  face, 

Heir  to  a  glorious  ancestry, 
And  father  of  a  mighty  race  ! 

Vain  hope,  that  throne  thou  must  not  fill ; 

Thee  must  that  Nation  ne'er  behold ; 
Thine  ancient  house  is  heirless  still, 

Thy  line  shall  never  be  unrolled. 

The  Mother  knew  her  offspring  dead  ; 

Oh  was  it  grief,  or  was  it  love 
That  broke  her  heart  ?     The  spirit  fled 

To  seek  her  nameless  child  above. 

Led  by  his  natal  star,  she  trod 

His  path  to  heaven  :  the  meeting  there, 
And  how  they  stood  before  their  God, 

The  day  of  judgment  will  declare. 

29* 


342  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE  PLUVIAN  JUPITER. 

FROM     A     PICTURE     BY     GANDY. 
BY    BARRY   CORNWALL. 

LOOK  !  where,  amongst  the  porphyry  columns,  sits 
Jove — the  Olympian  !     Look  !— His  shadowy  arms 
Crown  the  brave  temple  of  his  Deity, 
And  round  about  his  head  the  vapours  come 
Lowering,  in  dark  obedience. — Nobly  hath 
The  painter  told  his  story — and  well  it  shines 
(Placed  by  some  cunning  hand  there)  from  amidst 
The  architectural  things  of  new  creation, 
That  in  their  gilded  dress  rise  stiffly  up, 
As  though  to  do  it  honour. — Trooping  on, 
See  where  the  crowds  of  worshippers  (attired 
In  white,  and  carrying  flowers)  pass  on,  to  hail 
The  Spirit  supreme,  by  all  his  various  names 
Of  father,  and  king,  and  PLUVIAN  JUPITER. 
He — like  the  god  of  clouds,  sits  motionless  : 
But  in  his  quiet  power  there  seems  to  be 
Assent  and  blessing,  and  the  elements 
As  self-informed,  bow  down  obsequiously. 
Above,  above — temples  and  towers  sublime, 
Rocks  and  blue  mountains,  and  Athenian  skies 
Gleam  in  the  distance.     What  a  scene  is  there  ! 
Fit  for  those  mighty  minds  intelligent, 
Who,  through  the  mists  of  ages  rear  their  heads 
In  brave  defiance  of  the  storms  of  time. 
And,  haply,  from  these  beautiful  regions  came 
A  power,  that  shed  a  light  on  man  ;  and  as 
The  sun  draws  from  the  earth  rich  fruits,  drew  forth 
Bright  thoughts  and  patriot  feeling,  and  did  give 
To  Greece  its  fame  unparalleled. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  343 


GREECE. 

LAND  of  the  brave  !  where  lie  inurned 

The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay, 
In  whom  the  fire  of  valour  burned 

And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray : 
Land  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  at  Thermopylae  of  yore, 
When  death  his  purple  garment  threw 

On  Helle's  consecrated  shore  ! 

Land  of  the  Muse  !  within  thy  bowers 

Her  soul-entrancing  echoes  rung, 
While  on  their  course  the  rapid  Hours 

Paused  at  the  melody  she  sung ; — 
Till  every  grave  and  every  hill, 

And  every  stream  that  flowed  along, 
From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 

The  winning  harmony  of  song. 

Land  of  dead  heroes — living  slaves — 

Shall  glory  gild  thy  clime  no  more  ? 
Her  banners  float  above  thy  waves, 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before  ? 
Hath  not  remembrance  then  a  charm, 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain  ? 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm. 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  ? 

No  !  coward  souls— the  light  that  shone 

On  Leutra's  war-empurpled  day — 
The  light  that  beamed  on  Marathon, 

Hath  lost  its  splendour,  ceased  to  play  ; 
And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now, 

With  helmet  shattered — spear  in  rust — 
Thy  honour  but  a  dream — and  thou 

Despised — degraded — in  the  dust  ? 


344  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit  that  of  old 

Dashed  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume, 
When  the  loud  chaunt  of  triumph  told 

How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom  ? 
The  bold  three  hundred — where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  battle's  gory  breast  ? 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay, 

Where  death  has  hushed  them  into  rest. 

Yet  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glory  shines  of  ages  fled, 
And  fame  her  light  is  pouring  still, 

Not  on  the  living — but  the  dead  1 
But  'tis  the  dim  sepulchral  light 

That  sheds  a  faint  and  feeble  ray, 
As  moon-beams  on  the  brow  of  night, 

When  tempests  sweep  upon  their  way. 

Lost  land!  where  genius  made  his  reign, 

And  reared  his  golden  arch  on  high  ; 
Where  science  raised  her  sacred  fane, 

Its  summit  peering  to  the  sky  : 
Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 

Of  ignorance  hath  brooded  long, 
And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleep 

The  sons  of  science  and  of  song. 

The  sun  hath  set, — the  evening  storm 

Hath  passed  in  giant  fury  by, 
To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form, 

And  spread  its  pall  upon  thy  sky  ; 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem, 

And  freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece ! 
Literai'y  Chronicle. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  345 


LOVE. 

AWAKE,  my  harp,  some  joyful  measure  ! 

No  longer  breathe  a  pensive  strain  ; 
Be,  like  my  soul,  attuned  to  pleasure, 

And  never  mourn  again. 

Awake,  my  harp,  some  joyful  measure  ! 

'Twas  Love  that  taught  thy  strings  to  move ; 
And  Love  now  fills  my  soul  with  pleasure ; — 

Then  hymn  the  charms  of  Love! 

O  Love  !  some  call  thy  musings  folly, 
Some  call  thee  cruel,  base  and  blind  ; 

But  thou,  methinks,  art  pure  and  holy, 
Exalted, — raised, — refined. 

And  some  there  are  who  can  dissemble 
The  raptures  of  thy  ardent  flame  ; 

And  some  poor  maidens  start  and  tremble, 
If  they  but  hear  thy  name. 

Yet,  though  thy  charms  were  all  illusion, 
Such  dear  deceits  I  still  would  seek ! 

Thy  mantling  blush,  thy  soft  confusion, 
Thy  looks  that  more  than  speak. 

Thou  know'si,  O  Love  !  Low  I  have  blest  thee, 
How  oft  for  thee  my  heart  hath  beat ; 

How  oft  in  sorrow  I've  carest  thee, 
And  thought  my  sorrow  sweet. 

O  Love  !  some  call  thy  musings  folly  ; 

Some  call  thee  cruel,  base  and  blind ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  art  pure  and  holy, 

Exalted,  raised,  refined ! 
Poetical  Register.  N.  S.  S.  L. 


346  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  BEECH  TREE'S   PETITION, 

BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL,   ESQ. 

O  LEAVE  this  barren  spot  to  me ! 

Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 

My  dark,  unwanning  shade  below  ; 

Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 

Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue  ; 

Nor  fruits  of  Autumn,  blossom-born, 

My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn  ; 

Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 

The  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  ; 

Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me,  : 

Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  have  I  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour, 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made  ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame, 
Carved  many  a  long  forgotten  name. 
Oh  !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground  ; 
By  all  that  Love  had  whispered  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravished  ear  ; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me, 
3pare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  347 


ELEGY. 


BY.    C.    A.    ELTON. 

A  SHADOW  on  my  spirit  fell, 

When  my  hushed  footstep  from  thee  passed  ; 
And  sad  to  me  thy  mild  farewell, 

To  me,  who  feared  it  was  thy  last ; 
And  when  I  saw  thee  next,  a  veil 
Was  drawn  upon  thy  features  pale. 

They  strewed  thee  in  thy  narrow  bed 
With  roses  from  thy  own  loved  bowers  : 

In  melting  anguish  memory  fled 
Back  to  thy  valued  rural  hours  ; 

And  saw  thee  gentle  gliding  round, 

Where  all  to  thee  was  Eden  ground. 

The  God,  whose  presence  met  thee  there, 
Was  with  thee  in  thy  slow  decays ; 

He  answered  to  thy  dying  prayer, 

Whose  life  had  been  a  hymn  of  praise  : 

Thy  God  was  nigh — thy  Shepherd-God, 

With  comfort  of  his  staff  and  rod. 

I  lay  thee  where  the  loved  are  laid  : 

Rest— till  their  change  and  ihine  shall  come  ; 

Still  voices  whisper  through  the  shade  ; 
A  light  is  glimmering  round  the  tomb  ; 

The  temple  rends !  the  sleep  is  ended— 

Th«  dead  are  gone,  the  pure  ascended  ! 


348  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


TIME. 

WHILE  others  grace  thy  natal  day 

With  festive  dance  and  song, 
A  pilgrim  leaves  his  lonely  way 

To  mingle  in  the  throng  : 
When  thou  art  near,  a  lingering  pace, 
A  scanty  lock,  a  wrinkled  face, 

No  more  to  me  belong  ; 
For  smiling  beauty  best  can  prove 
How  swift  my  silver  pinions  move. 

I  will  not  boast  how  oft  and  bright 

This  day  I  mean  to  bring, 
Though  many  a  downy  plume  last  night 

Thy  bounty  gave  my  wing. 
Thy  hand  my  rosy  crown  bestowed — 
To  thee  my  sparkling  glass  I  owed, 

Now  take  my  offering  ; 
Thou  canst  not  reach  so  rich  a  prize 
In  Pleasure's  gayest  Paradise  ! 

Midst  sands  that  sparkle  in  my  glass 

No  purer  gem  I  find  ; 
The  rest  may  glitter,  break  and  pass, 

But  this  remains  behind  ; 
Pride  may  the  modest  pearl  disdain, 
Or  Love  a  brittle  semblance  feign, 

But  Pride  and  Love  are  blind  ; 
They  mock  my  power,  yet  I  alone 
Their  fraudful  counterfeits  make  known. 

Receive  my  gift ! — of  nature's  wealth 

Thy  mind  has  ample  store  ; 
Of  Pleasure,  Honour,  Hope  and  Health, 

I  cannot  give  thee  more. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  349 

The  gem,  which  none  of  these  can  buy 
Will  youth's  ethereal  light  supply, 

When  thou  like  me  art  hoar  ; 
I  give  what  Fortune  cannot  lend — 
Time,  only  Time  reveals  a  friend  ! 
European  Magazine. 


SONG, 

BY    HENRY    NEELE,    ESQ. 

FOR  thee,  love,  for  thee,  love, 

I'll  brave  fate's  sternest  storm  ; 
She  cannot  daunt  or  chill  the  hearts, 

Which  love  keeps  bold  and  warm: 
And  when  her  clouds  are  blackest,  nought 

But  thy  sweet  self  I'll  see, 
Nor  hear,  amidst  the  tempest,  aught 

But  thee,  love,  only  thee. 

For  thee,  love,  for  thee,  love, 

My  fond  heart  would  resign 
The  brightest  cup  that  pleasure  fills, 

And  fortune's  wealthiest  mine  ; 
For  pleasures  smiles  are  vanity, 

And  fortune's  fade  or  flee  ; 
There's  purity  and  constancy 

In  thee,  love,  only  thee. 

For  thee,  love,  for  thee,  love, 

Life's  lowly  vale  I'll  tread, 
And  aid  thy  steps  the  journey  through, 

Nor  quit  thee  till  I'm  dead  ; 
And  even  then  round  her  I  love, 

My  shade  shall  hovering  be, 
And  warble  notes  from  heaven  above 

To  thee,  love,  only  thee. 
New  European  Magazine. 
30 


350  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    A    HIGHLAND    GLEN. 
BY   JOHN   WILSON,    ESft. 

To  whom  belongs  this  valley  fair, 
That  sleeps  beneath  the  filmy  air, 

Even  like  a  living  thing  ! 
Calm, — as  the  infant  at  the  breast, — 
Save  a  still  sound  that  speaks  of  rest, — 

That  streamlet's  murmuring  ! 

The  heavens  appear  to  love  this  vale  ; 
There  clouds  with  scarce-seen  motion  sail 

Or,  'mid  the  silence  lie  ! 
By  that  blue  arch  this  beauteous  earth 
Mid  evening's  hour  of  dewy  mirth 

Seems  bound  unto  the  sky. 

O  !  that  this  lovely  vale  were  mine  ! 
Then,  from  glad  youth  to  calm  decline, 

My  years  would  gently  glide  ; 
Hope  would  rejoice  in  endless  dreams, 
And  memory's  oft-returning  gleams 

J3y  peace  be  sanctified. 

There  would  unto  my  soul  be  given, 
From  presence  of  that  gracious  heaven, 

A  piety  sublime ; 

And  thoughts  would  come  of  mystic  mood, 
To  make  in  this  deep  solitude 

Eternity  of  time  ! 

And  did  I  ask  to  whom  belonged 
This  vale  ? — I  feel  that  I  have  wronged 
Nature's  most  gracious  soul ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  351 

She  spreads  her  glories  o'er  the  earth, 
And  all  her  children  from  their  birth 
Are  joint-heirs  of  the  whole  ! 

Yea !  long  as  nature's  humblest  child 
Hath  kept  her  temple  undefiled 

By  sinful  sacrifice, 

Earth's  fairest  scenes  are  all  his  own, 
He  is  a  monarch,  and  his  throne 

Is  built  amid  the  skies  ! 


CELANO. 

A  BLUE  Italian  sky, — yet  scarce  more  blue 

Than  the  clear  lake  beneath, — upon  whose  breast 

Are  gliding  two  or  three  light  boats,  with  sails 

Floating  and  waving  gracefully  like  clouds. 

On  one  side  there  are  corn  and  green  grass  fields, 

And  olive  groves  and  vineyards,  and  one  shrine, — 

One  ruined  shrine, — sacred  in  other  days 

To  some  most  radiant  nymph  or  starry  queen, 

Whose  sweet  divinity  was  beauty.     Near 

Is  a  lone  cavern,  with  its  azure  fount 

Shaded  by  roses  and  a  laurel  tree, 

Beneath  whose  shade  might  the  young  painter  lean, 

And  gaze  around  until  his  passionate  hues 

Caught  light  and  life  and  loveliness.     Steep  hills 

Are  on  the  other  side,  upon  whose  heights 

Dark  Hannibal  once  rested.     Who  could  dream 

That  this  calm  lake  was  crimson  once  with  blood  ? 

That  these  green  myrtles  waved  o'er  the  death-wounds 

Of  men  in  their  last  agony  ?     Oh,  War ! 

How  soon  thy  red  fiends  can  lay  desolate 

The  holy  and  the  beautiful  ! 

Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


352  THE    POETICAL   ALBUM. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  MALHAMDALE. 

IF,  on  some  bright  and  breezeless  eve, 

When  falls  the  ripe  rose  leaf  by  leaf, 
The  moralizing  Bard  will  heave 

A  sigh  that  seems  allied  to  grief^ 
Shall  I  be  blithe — shall  I  be  mute — 

Nor  shed  the  tear,  nor  pour  the  wail, 
When  death  hath  blighted  to  its  root 

The  sweetest  flower  of  Malhamdale  ! 

Her  form  was  like  the  fair  sun-stream 

That  glances  through  the  mists  of noon,— 
Ah  !  little  thought  we  that  its  beam 

Would  vanish  from  our  glens  so  soon  ! 
Yet,  when  her  eye  had  most  of  mirth, 

And  when  her  cheek  the  lea's!  was  pale, 
They  talked  of  purer  worlds  than  earth  : — 

She  could  not  stay  in  Malhamdale ! 

The  placid  depth  of  that  dark  eye, 

The  wild-rose  tint  of  that  fair  cheek, 
Will  still  awake  the  long-drawn  sigh, 

While  memory  of  the  past  shall  speak. 
And  we  can  never  be  but  pained 

To  think,  when  gazing  on  that  vale, 
One  angel  more  to  heaven  is  gained, 

But  one  is  lost  to  Malhamdale  ! 

I  may  not  tell  what  dreams  were  mine, 

Dreams  laid  in  bright  futurity, 
When  the  full,  soft,  and  partial  shine 

Of  that  fair  eye  was  turned  on  me. 
Enough — enough,  the  blooming  wreath 

Of  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Joy,  is  pale, 
And  now  its  withering  perfumes  breathe 

On  yon  new  grave  in  Malhamdale. 
Literary  Gazette. 


THE    POETICAL    ALBUM.  353 


BALLAD 


BY    MRS.    CORNWELL    BARON   WILSON. 

YES  !  once  I  own  I  loved  thee, 

With  purest  flame,  with  purest  flame  ; 
The  smiles  of  beauty  moved  me, 

Let  stoics  blame,  let  stoics  blame  ; 
Aye !  let  them  scorn  love's  tender  theme, 

And  with  cold  hearts  such  lays  deride  ; 
One  hour  of  youth's  romantic  dream, 

Is  worth  an  age  of  life  beside  ! 

When  Hope's  soft  voice  was  singing, 

Her  sweetest  lay,  her  sweetest  lay  ; 
And  smiles,  like  flowers,  were  springing 

Around  my  way,  around  my  way  ; — 
Then  first  in  joyous  hour  we  met, 

With  bosoms  light,  from  sorrow  free, 
Nor  did  I  dream  that  dark  regret 

Could  ever  rise  at  thoughts  of  THEE  ! 

'Twas  in  youth's  summer  season, 

When  hearts  were  gay,  when  hearts  were  gay ; 
Before  the  wand  of  reason 

Chased  hope  away,  chased  hope  away  ; 
That  first  this  bosom  felt  love's  power, 

And  worshipped  at  his  fairy  shrine ; 
Nor  ever  thought  that  luckless  hour 

Would  be  the  source  of  griefs  like  mine  ! 

That  sunny  time  passed  over, 

And  life  grew  dark,  and  life  grew  dark; 
And  fate  soon  left  thy  lover, 

A  stranded  bark,  a  stranded  bark  ; 
Of  all  his  early  glories  reft, 

On  life's  rude  ocean  dark  and  dim, 
With  not  one  friendly  harbour  left, 

Or  welcome  port  to  shelter  him ! 
30* 


354 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


Still  in  that  hour  of  sorrow, 

When  fortune  frowned,  when  fortune  frowned  ; 
His  heart  one  hope  could  borrow, 

To  look  around,  to  look  around  ; 
It  was  the  blissful  thought  of  thee, 

[n  life's  first  bright  unclouded  day, 
That  lightened  all  the  misery 

That  tracked  the  wanderer's  weary  way  ! 

Yet  this  last  hope  was  blighted, 

So  fate  decreed,  so  fate  decreed  ; 
For  THOU,  like  others,  slighted 

The  bruised  reed,  the  bruised  reed  ; 
Yes  !  thou  wert  like  that  faithless  thing, 

The  blue-winged  bird  of  distant  isles, 
That  only  spreads  its  painted  wing, 

And  breathes  its  song  when  Phrebus  smiles ! 

Yes !  once  I  own  I  loved  thee, 

Alas!  too  well,  alas  !  too  well ; 
How  faithless  I  have  proved  thee, 

I  will  not  tell,  I  will  not  tell ! 
Let  stoics  scorn  love's  tender  theme, 

And  turn  away  their  eyes  of  pride  ; 
Give  me  one  hour  of  passion's  dream, 

'Tis  worth  an  age  of  life  beside  ! 


A  BYRONIAN   GEM. 

BETWEEN  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn  upon  the  horizon's  verge, 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are  ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !     The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 

Our  bubbles  ;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lashed  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;  while  the  graves 

Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  mightier  waves  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  355 

AWAKE  MY  LOVE. 

BY    ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 

AWAKE,  my  love !  ere  morning's  ray 
Throws  off  night's  weed  of  pilgrim  gray  ; 
Ere  yet  the  hare,  cowered  close  from  view 
Licks  from  her  fleece  the  clover  dew  ; 
Or  wild  swan  shakes  her  snowy  wings, 
By  hunters  roused  from  secret  springs  ; 
Or  birds  upon  the  boughs  awal^e, 
Till  green  Arbigland's  woodlands  shake  ! 

She  combed  her  curling  ringlets  down, 
Laced  her  green  jupes  and  clasped  her  shoon, 
And  from  her  home  by  Preston  burn 
Came  forth  the  rival  light  of  morn. 
The  lark's  song  dropt,  now  loud,  now  hush  ; — 
The  gold-spink  answered  from  the  bush, — 
The  plover,  fed  on  heather  crop, 
Called  from  the  misty  mountain  top. 

'    'Tis  sweet,  she  said,  while  thus  the  day 
Grows  into  gold  from  silvery  gray, 
To  hearken  heaven,  and  bush  and  brake, 
Instinct  with  soul  of  song,  awake; — 
To  see  the  smoke,  in  many  a  wreath, 
Stream  blue  from  hall  and  bower  beneath, 
Where  yon  blithe  mower  hastes  along 
With  glittering  scythe  and  rustic  song. 

Yes,  lovely  one  !  and  dost  thou  mark 
The  moral  of  yon  caroling  lark? 
Tak'st  thou  from  nature's  counsellor  tongue 
The  warning  precept  of  her  song? 
Each  bird  that  shakes  the  dewy  grove 
Warms  its  wild  note  with  nuptial  love — 
The  bird,  the  bee,  with  various  sound, 
Proclaim  the  sweets  of  wedlock  'round. 
London  Magazine. 


356  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


THE  PIRATE'S  CAVE. 

THE  shore  was  reefed  with  rocks,  whose  rugged  sides 

Were  venturous  footing  for  the  fowler's  step  : 

They  were  shaped  out  in  wild  and  curious  forms, 

Above,  all  jagged  and  broken,  but  below 

The  waves  had  worn  the  shaggy  points  away; 

For  there  they  rave  incessantly.     When  last 

1  past  along  the  beach,  it  was  at  eve, 

A  summer's  eve,  stormy,  but  beautiful ; 

I  looked  in  silence,  on  the  western  sky, 

The  rest  was  hidden  from  my  view  ;  but  there 

The  day  had  spent  its  glory.     One  rich  light 

Broke  through  the  shadow  of  the  tempest's  wing, 

While  the  black  clouds,  with  gold  and  purple  edged, 

Caught  every  moment  warmer  hues,  until 

'Twas  all  one  sparkling  arch,  and,  like  a  king, 

In  triumph  o'er  his  foes,  the  Sun-god  sought 

The  blue  depths  of  the  sea  ; — the  waters  yet 

Were  ruffled  with  the  storm,  and  the  white  foam 

Yet  floated  on  the  billows,  while  the  wind 

Murmured  at  times  like  to  an  angry  child, 

Who  sobs  even  in  his  slumber.     'Mid  the  rocks 

That  rose  stern  barriers  to  the  rebel  waves, 

There  was  one  spot  less  rugged  than  the  rest : 

Some  firs  had  taken  root  there,  and  waved  o'er 

The  entrance  of  a  cave,  where  Grecian  bards 

Had  said  some  Sea-maid  dwelt,  and  decked  the  place 

With  ocean  treasures,  for  the  walls  were  bright 

With  crystal  spar  :  In  sooth,  it  seemed  just  formed 

For  some  fair  daughter  of  the  main  ;  at  noon, 

Here  she  might  bind  her  hair  with  shells,  and  wake 

Her  golden  harp.     But  now  a  legend's  told 

Of  human  love  and  sorrow — it  is  called 

The  Cavern  of  the  Pirate's  Love : — her  fate 

Is  soon  and  sadly  told  :  she  followed  one, 

A  lawless  wanderer  of  the  deep,  for  whom 

She  left  her  father's  halls.     A  little  while 

Bhe  might  know  happiness — it  is  the  heart 

That  gives  the  colour  to  our  destiny. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  357 

But  lovely  things  are  fleeting — blushes,  sighs, 
The  hours  of  youth,  smiles,  hopes,  and  minstrel-dreams, 
Spring  days  and  blossoms,  music's  tones,  are  all 
Most  fugitive  ;  and  swifter  still  than  these 
Will  love  dissolve  into  forgetful  ness. 
She  was  deserted.     For  awhile  this  cave 
Was  her  sad  refuge  ;  for  awhile  the  rocks 
Echoed  her  wild  complainings.     I  can  deem 
How  she  would  gaze  upon  the  sea,  and  think 
Each  passing  cloud  her  lover's  bark,  'till,  hope 
Sickened  of  its  own  vanity,  and  life 
Sickened  with  hope  :  she'passed  and  left  a  tale, 
A  melancholy  tale,  just  fit  to  tell 
On  such  an  eve  as  this,  when  sky  and  sea 
Are  sleeping  in  the  mute  and  mournful  calm 
Of  passion  sunk  to  rest. 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE  FIRST  TEAR. 

BY    THE    REV.    R.    POLWHELE. 

AH,  why  to  my  too  feeling  mind 
Is  this  my  native  place  so  dear, 

As  if  it  had  some  chain  to  bind 
In  lasting  links  my  being  here  ? 

I  need  not  ask  !  'twas  this  calm  scene 
Witnessed  ere  yet  a  stranger !  I 

Had  mingled  with  tumultuous  men 
My  purest  grief— my  purest  joy. 

For  'twas  this  spot  on  my  young  cheek 
That  saw  the  first  emotion  rise, 

That  saw  its  little  wo  to  speak, 
The  first  tear  dim  my  infant  eyes. 


358  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

THE   WIDOWED  MOTHER. 

BY    JOHN    WILSON,    ESQ. 

BESIDE  her  babe,  who  sweetly  slept, 
A  widowed  mother  sat  and  wept 

O'er  years  of  love  gone  by  ; 
And  as  the  sobs  thick-gathering  came, 
She  murmured  her  dead  husband's  name 

'Mid  that  sad  lullaby. 

Well  might  that  lullaby  be  sad, 
For  not  one  single  friend  she  had 

On  this  cold-hearted  earth  ; 
The  sea  will  not  give  back  its  prey — 
And  they  were  wrapt  in  foreign  clay 

Who  gave  the  orphan  birth. 

Steadfastly  as  a  star  doth  look 
Upon  a  little  murmuring  brook, 

She  gazed  upon  the  bosom 
And  fair  brow  of  her  sleeping  son, — 
'  O  merciful  heaven  !  when  I  am  gone 

'  Thine  is  this  earthly  blossom  !' 

While  thus  she  sat, — a  sunbeam  broke 
Into  the  room  ; — the  babe  awoke, 

And  from  his  cradle  smiled ! 
Ah  me  !  what  kindling  smiles  met  there  ! 
I  know  not  whether  was  more  fair, 

The  mother  or  her  child  ! 

With  joy  fresh-sprung  from  short  alarms, 
The  smiler  stretched  his  rosy  arms, 

And  to  her  bosom  leapt, — 
All  tears  at  once  were  swept  away, 
And  said  a  face  as  bright  as  day, — 

'  Forgive  me  !  that  I  wept !' 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  359 

Sufferings  there  are  from  nature  sprung, 
Ear  hath  not  heard,  nor  poet's  tongue 

May  venture  to  declare  ; 
But  this  as  holy-writ  is  sure, 
1  The  griefs  she  bids  us  here  endure 

'She  can  herself  repair !' 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


STANZAS. 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

IN  glowing  youth,  he  stood  beside 

His  native  stream,  and  saw  it  glide 

Showing  each  gem  beneath  its  tide, 

Calm  as  though  nought  could  break  its  rest, 

Reflecting  heaven  on  its  breast, 

And  seeming,  in  its  flow,  to  be 

Like  candour,  peace  and  piety. 

When  life  began  its  brilliant  dream, 

His  heart  was  like  his  native  stream  ; 

The  wave-shrined  gems  could  scarcely  seem 

Less  hidden  than  each  wish  it  knew  ; 

Its  life  flowed  on  as  calmly  too  : 

And  heaven  shielded  it  from  sin, 

To  see  itself  reflected  in. 

He  stood  beside  that  stream  again, 
When  years  had  fled  in  strife  and  pain  ; 
He  looked  for  its  calm  course  in  vain, — 
For  storms  profaned  its  peaceful  flow, 
And  clouds  o'erhung  its  crystal  brow  : — 
And  turning  then,  he  sighed  to  deem 
His  heart  still  like  his  native  stream. 
Monthly  Magazine. 


360  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

LINES, 

WRITTEN    BY    THE    SEA    SIDE. 
BY    WILLIAM    JERDAN,    ESa. 

HASTINGS,  upon  thy  coast  I  stood, — 
Still  onward,  onward  rolled  the  flood  : 
'Tis  trite,  but  who  can  see  that  strife 
Of  waves,  nor  think  on  human  life  ? 
Oh,  awful  likeness !  how  they  pass, 
A  rippling  undistinguished  mass, 
Fretting  the  surface,  and  no  more, 
Till  lost  upon  the  oblivious  shore. 

And  Fancy,  how  thou  turn'st  my  brain  ! 
I  trace  each  billow  of  the  main : 
'Tis  individual,  and  its  span 
Of  being  is  like  thine,  O  Man  ! 

Mark  ye  that  plumy-crested  surge, 
Its  foaming  courser  forward  urge  ; 
Lashing  the  land,  it  spreads  dismay, 
The  pebbles  fly,  the  rocks  give  way  : 
That  is  the  warrior  fierce  upreared, 
Roaring  to  battle,  ruthless,  feared  ; 
He's  spent — a  whispering  murmur  all 
That  echoes  his  high-sounding  fall. 

Upon  the  sand  that  gentle  wave 
Delights  in  peaceful  grace  to  lave, 
The  margin  dents  with  flowing  line, 
While  glittering  planets  o'er  it  shine  : 
That  is  the  Bard,  alas  !  to  see 
The  impress  of  his  harmony 
And  tuneful  force,  a  moment's  joy, 
The  next  succeeding  wave  destroy. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  361 

Wearing  and  splashing  through  these  rocks, 
Whose  adamant  the  struggle  mocks  ; 
In  eddies  whirled,  in  deep  chasms  lost, 
Rubbling  in  straits,  in  spray  up-tost; 
Many  an  effort  see  they  make, 
And  billows  rise,  and  billows  break: — 
All  worldlings  these,  who  ceaseless  boil 
And  labour  on  with  noisy  toil ; 
By  difficulties  some  defied, 
Die  off  the  granite's  reckless  side  ; 
While  others,  blest  beyond  desire, 
Wind  through,  and  on  the  shore  expire  ! 
Those  burst,  the  haven  ere  they  reach, 
And  these  but  perish  on  the  beach. 

How  sweetly  these  round  billows  rise, 
And  undulate,  while  the  breeze  sighs 
Above  ;  their  race  seems  youthful  sport, 
Flight  and  pursuit — they  shun,  they  court-  •» 
Now  parted,  and  to  distance  thrown, 
And  now  commingled  into  one  ; 
They  swell  but  soon  subside,  and  where 
They  were,  a  few  small  wavelets  are  ; 
Or  sooth  to  say,  they  brawl  and  flee, 
One  seeks  the  land,  one  floats  to  sea : 
How  like  is  this  to  human  love, 
As  the  young  passions  swell  and  move  ; 
Coy  dalliance,  union,  fond  embrace, 
Proud  bound,  and  then  a  nameless  place — 
Or  severed  fates,  away  they  go, — 
No  matter  where  they  froth  or  flow. 

Far  off  a  hoary  head  I  view, 
Dropping  salt  rheum  :  'tis  age's  hue, 
And  life's  last  tears.     The  sea-bird's  breast 
Is  on  the  neighbouring  calm  imprest — 
Ah,  spirit's  emblem  !  can  it  be, 
But  one  faint  struggle  more,  and  lie 
Shall  seek  Heaven's  element,  like  thee  ? 
31 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

How  blest,  if  so  ;  for  lo  the  gale, 
Increasing,  flaps  the  shuddering  sail, 
Wild  ocean  bellows  loud,  and  fierce 
The  tempest  sweeps,  the  drear  winds  pierce 
With  dismal  howl,  the  waters  rave, — 
Nothing  can  scape  the  yawning  grave  ; 
And  every  mortal,  wrecked,  may  know 
There  is  no  safety  here  below. 

Ah  me  !  my  dream  of  WAVES  is  o'er  ; 
Another  reflux  bares  the  shore, 
Another  influx  comes  again, 
And  new  each  shape  in,  on,  the  main — 
My  heroes,  lovers,  bards,  all  fled, 
Forgotten,  traceless,  vanished. 
And  Man,  whence  springs  thy  senseless  pride  ? 
'Tis  but  a  CENTURY  or  a  TIDE  ? 
Literary  Gazette. 


COMPARISON. 

THE  lake  lay  hid  in  mist,  and  to  the  sand 

The  little  billows  hastened  silently 
Came  sparkling  on,  in  many  a  gladsome  band, 

Soon  as  they  touched  the  shore  all  doomed  to  die. 

I  gazed  upon  them  with  a  pensive  eyer 
For,  on  that  dim  and  melancholy  strand, 

I  saw  the  image  of  Man's  destiny, 

So  hurry  we  right  onwards  thoughtlessly, 
Unto  the  coast  of  that  Eternal  Land. 

Where,  like  the  worthless  billows  in  their  glee, 
The  first  faint  touch  unable  to  withstand, 

We  melt  at  once  into  eternity. 
O  Thou  who  weighest  the  waters  in  thine  hand, 

My  awe-struck  spirit  puts  her  trust  in  thee. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  363 

ON  A  NEW-MADE  GRAVE, 

NEAR    BOLTON    PRIORY. 

SWEET  be  thy  rest!  near  holy  shrine 

A  purer  relic  never  lay  : 
A  grave  of  blessedness  is  thine, 

More  rich  than  piles  of  sculptured  clay. 

For  softly  on  these  peaceful  knolls 

The  feet  of  happy  wanderers  tread  ; 
While  Wharf  his  silver  chariot  rolls 

In  music  o'er  his  ample  bed. 

And  none  are  here  but  those  who  come 

In  gentle  indolence  to  roam, 
Or  feed  in  Bolton's  holy  gloom 

Sweet  memories  of  a  distant  home. 

Sweet  be  thy  rest ! — the  toils  and  woes 

Of  man,  have  left  this  magic  bound, 
Since  Beauty's  awful  genius  chose, 

And  breathed  upon  the  sacred  ground. 

Those  cliffs  where  purple  shadows  creep, 

The  stream  scarce  gleaming  through  the  dell, 

These  giant  groves  that  guard  its  sleep, 
The  present  power  of  Beauty  tell. 

The  crosier's  place,  the  nltar-stohe, 

Now  echo  gentle  wisdom's  speech  ; 
And  those  dim  cloisters,  mute  and  lone, 

Their  meek  and  holy  moral  teach. 

The  shrine,  the  mitred  Abbot's  niche, 
Where  once  unheeded  incense  spread, 

Now  with  the  woodbine's  wreath  is  rich, 
And  sweets  from  vagrant  roses  shed. 


364  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Changed  to  a  bounteous  Baron's  hall, 
His  gateway  greets  the  wandering  guest, 

And  only  on  its  arrased  wall 

The  frowning  warrior  lifts  his  crest. 

Where  by  a  lonely  taper's  light 

The  cowled  and  captive  bigot  knelt, 

Now  summer-suns  beam  cheerly  bright, 
And  evening's  softest  shadows  melt. 

Where  once  the  yelling  torrent's  jaws 
Death  to  the  youthful  hunter  gave, 

Scarce  frolic  beauty  feigns  a  pause, 
Then  trusts  her  light  foot  to  the  wave. 

Emblem  of  passion's  changeful  tide  ! 

The  flood  that  wrecked  the  heedless  boy 
In  after  years  is  taught  to  glide 

Through  sheltering  bowers  of  social  joy. 

For  such  a  tomb  of  sweets  and  flowers, 
By  social  gladness  sacred  made, 

Midst  warbling  streams  and  golden  bowers, 
The  priest  of  Persia's  Eden  prayed. 

But  far  from  thee  shall  be  the  torch 
Of  frantic  mirth  and  impious  rite  ; 

A  Christian  Hafiz  guards  the  porch, 
And  decks  the  Garden  of  Delight. 

And  only  kindred  hearts  can  bear 

The  smiling  peace  that  slumbers  here  ; 

None  but  the  pure  in  spirit  dare 

Gaze  on  a  scene  to  heaven  so  near. 
European  Magazine. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

TO  IDA. 

Heu  !  quantum  minus  est  reliquis  versari,  quam  tin  meminisse  ! 

OH  !  sweetly  o'er  the  Atlantic  sea, 

The  moon,  with  melancholy  smile, 
Looks  down,  as  I,  beloved,  on  thee 

Am  fondly  musing  all  the  while  : 
And  as,  along  the  silver  tide, 

Its  silent  course  the  vessel  steers, 
I  dream  of  days,  when,  side  by  side, 

We  roamed  on  eves  of  other  years! 

Though  many  a  land,  and  many  a  wave, 

Between  us  rise,  between  us  roll, 
Still,  like  a  beacon,  bright  to  save, 

Thou  sheddcst  light  upon  my  soul. 
And  though  the  mist  of  years  hath  passed, 

Since  first  I  blessed  its  glorious  shine, 
Yet  thoughts — and  woes — and  days  amassed, 

Have  only  made  it  doubly  thine  ! 

How  sweetly  to  the  pensive  mind 

The  dreams  of  other  days  awake, 
And  all  the  joys  be  left  behind, 

No  more  on  earth  to  overtake ! 
Our  wanderings  by  the  sandy  shore, — 

Our  walks  along  the  twilight  plain, — 
The  raptures  that  we  felt  of  yore,. — 

And  ne'er  on  earth  shall  feel  again  ! 

Unclouded  rnoon  !  o'er  rippling  seas 

Thou  lookest  down  in  placid  grace; 
With  sails,  expanded  by  the  breeze, 

Alert,  our  onward  path  we  trace  ; 
To  foreign  isles,  and  lauds  unknown, 

We  steer,  where  every  sigh  shall  tell, 
'Mid  thousands  as  I  walk  alone, 

My  thoughts,  with  those  far  distant  dwell. 


56  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

Unclouded  moon  !  'tis  sweet  to  mark 

Thine  aspect,  so  serene  and  calm, 
Dispersing,  vanquishing  the  dark, 

And  o'er  our  sorrows  shedding  balm. 
Departed  years  like  visions  pass 

Across  the  hot  and  fevered  brow, 
Blest  years,  and  vanished  eves,  alas ! 

When  thou  did'st  shine  as  thou  dost  now ! 

Oh  !  brightly  as  of  yesterday 

The  dreams  of  vanished  years  awake, 
The  hopes  that  flattered  to  betray, 

And  left  the  joyless  heart  to  break. — 
I  see  thee,  as  I  saw  thee  then. 

Endowed  by  youth  with  magic  charm  ; 
I  hear  thee,  as  I  heard  thee,  when 

We  roamed  together,  arm  in  arm. 

It  were  a  soothing  thought,  that  thou 

Perchance,  now  pondering,  tak'st  delight 
To  raise  thy  white,  angelic  brow, 

And  gaze  upon  this  lovely  night ; 
And  that  the  very  scenes  might  rise 

Upon  thy  mind's  reverted  eye. 
That  draw  from  me  a  thousand  sighs, 

In  starting  up — and  passing  by. 

'Twere  nothing  did  we  die — 'twere  nought 

From  life  at  once  to  pass  away, 
But  thus  to  wither  thought  by  thought, 

And  inch  by  inch,  and  day  by  day  ; 
To  mark  the  lingering  tints  of  light, 

As  twilight  o'er  the  sky  expands, — 
To  mark  the  wave's  receding  flight, 

That  leaves  the  bleak  and  barren  sands. 

To  see  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky 
Fade  one  by  one,  to  note  the  leaves 

Drop  from  the  boughs  all  witheringly, 

Through  which  the  wintry  tempest  grieves — 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  367 

'Tis  this  that  chills  the  drooping  heart, 
That  still  we  breathe,  and  feel,  and  live, 

When  all  the  powers  of  earth  depart, 
And  life  hath  not  a  joy  to  give  ! 

Not  parted  yet — not  parted  yet — 

Though  oceans  roll,  and  roar  between  ; 
A  star  that  glitters  ne'er  to  set, 

Thou  smilest  bright,  and  shinest  serene  ; 
Fair  Ida  !  and  the  waste  of  life, 

All  bleak  and  barren  though  it  be, 
Although  a  scene  of  care  and  strife, 

Has  still  a  charm  in  having  thee  ! 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


THE  MOSS  ROSE, 

FROM    THE    GERMAN. 

THE  angel  of  the  flowers  one  day, 

Beneath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay, 

That  spirit  to  whom  charge  is  given 

To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  of  heaven  ; 

Awaking  from  his  light  repose, 

The  angel  whispered  to  the  Rose  : 

'  O  fondest  object  of  my  care, 

*  Still  fairest  found,  where  all  are  fair 

*  For  the  sweet  shade  thou  givest  to  me, 

*  Ask  what  thou  wilt  'tis  granted  thee.' 

'  Then,'  said  the  Rose,  with  deepened  glow, 
1  On  me  another  grace  bestow.' — 
The  spirit  paused  in  silent  thought, 
What  grace  was  there  that  flower  had  not  ? 
'Twas  but  a  moment — o'er  the  rose 
A  veil  of  moss  the  angel  throws, 
And  robed  in  nature's  simplest  weed, 
Could  there  a  flower  that  rose  exceed. 
Literary  Gazette.  ISABEL. 


368          THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 


TIME  ARRESTING  THE  CAREER  OF  PLEA- 
SURE. 

FROM    A    DRAWING    BY    R.    DAGLEY. 

STAY  thee  on  thy  wild  career, 
Other  sounds  than  mirth's  are  near ; 
Spread  not  those  white  arms  in  air  ; 
Fling  those  roses  from  thy  hair  ; 
Stop  awhile  those  glancing  feet ; 
Still  thy  golden  cymbals  beat ; 
Ring  not  thus  thy  joyous  laugh  ; 
Cease  that  purple  cup  to  quaff; 
Hear  my  voice  of  warning,  hear, — 
Stay  thee  on  thy  wild  career ! 

Youth's  sweet  bloom  is  round  thee  now, 

Roses  laugh  upon  thy  brow  ; 

Radiant  are  thy  starry  eyes  ; 

Spring  is  in  the  crimson  dyes 

O'er  which  thy  dimpled  smile  is  wreathing  ; 

Incense  on  thy  lip  is  breathing  ; 

Light  and  Love  are  round  thy  soul, — 

But  thunder-peals  o'er  June-skies  roll ; 

Even  now  the  storm  is  near — 

Then  stay  thee  on  thy  mad  career ! 

Raise  thine  eyes  to  yonder  sky, 
There  is  writ  thy  destiny  ! 
Clouds  have  veiled  the  new  moonlight; 
Stars  have  fallen  from  their  height ; 
These  are  emblems  of  the  fate 
That  waits  thee — dark  and  desolate  ! 
All  morn's  lights  are  now  thine  own, 
Soon  their  glories  will  be  gone  ; 
What  remains  when  they  depart  ? 
Faded  hope,  and  withered  heart : 
Like  a  flower  with  no  perfume 
To  keep  a  memory  of  its  bloom  ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  369 

Look  upon  that  hour-marked  round, 
Listen  to  that  fateful  sound  ; 
There  my  silent  hand  is  stealing, 
My  more  silent  course  revealing  ; 
Wild,  devoted  PLEASURE,  hear, — 
Stay  thee  on  thy  mad  career  ! 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.  L. 


THE  SPANISH  MAIDEN'S  FAREWELL. 

BY    MATILDA    BETHAM. 

MANUEL,  I  do  not  shed  a  tear 

Our  parting  to  delay  ; 
J  dare  not  listen  to  my  fear, 

I  dare  not  bid  thee  stay. 

The  heart  may  shrink,  the  spirit  fail, 

But  Spaniards  must  be  free  ! 
And  pride  and  duty  shall  prevail 

O'er  all  my  love  for  thee. 

Then  go  ;  and  round  that  gallant  head, 

Like  banners  in  the  air, 
Shall  float  full  many  a  daring  hope, 

And  many  a  tender  prayer. 

Should  freedom  perish — at  thy  death 

'Twere  madness  to  repine  ; 
And  I  should  every  feeling  lose, 

Except  the  wish  for  mine. 

But  if  the  destiny  of  Spain 

Be  once  again  to  rise ! 
O  !  grant  me  heaven  !  to  read  the  tale 

In  Manuel's  joyful  eyes. 


370  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 

THE  CAIRNGORM. 

A    HIGHLAND    HUSBAND'S    GIFT. 

WEAR  thy  mountain's  diamond,  fairest ! 

In  thy  waving  hair  ; 
It  will  noblest  seem,  and  rarest 

If  it  sparkles  there  ; 
For  only  this  dark  gem  can  vie 
With  those  brown  tresses'  burnished  dye, 
And  well  the  elves  that  guard  it  know, 
If  it  might  touch  thy  spotless  brow, 
For  ever  in  thy  memory 
Thy  wedded  love  would  living  be. 

Or  hanging  on  thy  ear,  dearest, 

A  moment  let  it  shine  ; 
Then  in  every  voice  thou  hearest 

Shall  seem  a  sound  of  mine — 
Yet  no  ; — for  never  by  the  tone 
Of  silver  words  was  true  Jove  known  ; 
I  would  not  tax  thy  soul  to  give 
The  fondness  that  on  words  can  live. 

But  place  it  on  thy  hand,  sweetest. 

Clasped  with  the  holy  gold, 
And  when  a  stranger's  hand  thou  meetest, 

Thine  shall  be  winter-cold  ; 
And  thou  shalt  lute  and  tablet  take 
In  bower  or  chamber  for  my  sake  ; 
And  it  shall  teach  thy  pen  to  show 
How  thought  should  speak  when  speech  is  true. 

Then  hide  it  in  thy  breast,  dearest ! 

If  it  be  pure  as  fair, 
When  to  thy  heart  this  gem  is  nearest, 

My  image  shall  be  there  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  371 

For  it  has  spells  more  deep  and  strong 
When  hid  its  native  snows  among  ; 
And  it  shall  have  most  power  to  bless 
Where  all  is  power  and  holiness. 
European  Magazine.  V. 


THE  POET. 

OH  say  not  that  truth  does  not  dwell  with  the  lyre, 
That  the  minstrel  will  feign  what  he  never  has  felt ; 
Oh  say  not  his  love  is  a  fugitive  fire, 
Thrown  o'er  the  snow  mountains,  will  sparkle,  not  melt 

It  is  not  the  Alpine  hills  rich  with  the  ray 
Of  sunset  can  image  the  soul  of  the  bard ; 
The  light  of  the  evening  around  them  may  play, 
But  the  frost-work  beneath  is,  though  bright,  cold  an( 
hard. 

'Tis  the  burning  volcano,  that  ceaselessly  glows, 
Where  the  minstrel  may  find  his  own  semblance  pour- 

trayed  ; 

The  red  fires  that  gleam  on  the  summits  are  those 
That  first  on  his  own  inmost  spirit  have  preyed. 

Ah,  deeply  the  minstrel  has  felt  all  he  sings, 
Every  passion  he  paints  his  own  bosom  has  known  ; 
No  note  of  wild  music  is  swept  from  the  strings, 
But  first  his  own  feelings  have  echoed  the  tone. 

Then  say  not  his  love  is  a  fugitive  fire, 
That  the  heart  can  be  ice  while  the  lip  is  of  flame  ; 
Oh  say  not  that  truth  does  not  dwell  with  the  lyre; 
For  the  pulse  of  the  heart  and  the  harp  are  the' same. 
Literary  Gazette.  L.  E.L. 


372  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


TO   THE   MEMORY  OF   IDA. 

Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  one  that  cannot  quit  the  dead. — BYRON. 

WELL — though  the  clouds  of  sorrow  haste, 

With  darkening  gloom,  and  threatening  roll, 
To  blight  existence  to  a  waste, 

And  shut  out  sunshine  from  my  soul, 
Departed  Ida !  rather  far 

My  musing  thoughts  would  dwell  on  thee, 
Than  join  the  mirthful,  and  the  jar 

Of  voices  loud,  and  spirits  free. 

Sad  alteration  ! — Here  alone, 

Where  we  so  oft  together  sate, 
With  hearts,  where  love's  commingling  tone 

Had  linked  us  to  one  mutual  fate : 
I  gaze  around  me — where  art  thou, 

Whose  glance  was  sunshine  to  the  spot  ? 
These  roses  bloomed,  as  they  bloom  now, 

But  thou  art — where — I  see  thee  not ! 

Oh  !  never  more — oh  !  never  more 

This  earth  again  shall  smile  for  me  ! 
I'll  listen  to  the  tempest's  roar, — 

Or  gaze  along  the  stormy  sea, — 
And  from  the  sunshine  I  will  hide, — 

But,  as  the  moon  in  silver  gleams, 
I'll  lean  me  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 

And  see  thee  in  my  waking  dreams. 

Then  welcome  be  the  doom  that  calls 

To  foreign  climes  my  wandering  way: 
These  echoing  walks  and  empty  halls, 

The  blosmy  lilac  on  its  spray. — 
The  lily  in  its  innocence, — 

The  fleur-de-lis  with  purple  vest, — 
Pine  for  thee,  vanished  far  from  hence, 

Removed  from  earth,  and  laid  to  rest. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  373 

Oh  !  do  not  breathe  on  Ida's  lute — 

'Twould  make  her  vanished  form  appear, 
Since  Ida's  breathing1  now  is  mute — 

Since  Ida's  voice  I  cannot  hear. 
All  music,  and  all  melody, 

The  azure  stream,  and  leafy  tree, 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky 

Are  stripped  of  half  their  charms  for  me! 

Then  welcome  be  the  flapping  sail, 

And  welcome  he  the  stormy  main, 
And  never  may  the  breezes  fail, 

But  when  they  bring  me  back  again ! 
And  I  will  wander  o'er  the  deep, 

And  brave  the  tempest's  threatening  harms, 
Since  not  a  shore  to  which  we  sweep, 

To  me  can  proffer  Ida's  arms  ! 

Oh  !  Ida,  ever  lost  and  dear, 

Soon  come  the  day,  and  come  it  must, 
When  I  shall  seek  thy  happier  sphere, 

And  leave  this  perishable  dust. 
Then  grief  shall  flee  my  troubled  eyes, 

And  gloom  forsake  my  drooping  heart, 
And  through  the  fields  of  Paradise 

We  two  shall  roam,  and  never  part. 
Blackwootfs  Magazine.  NAUTA. 


32 


374  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


FRAGMENT. 

A  SOLITUDE 

Of  green  and  silent  beauty,  just  a  home 

Where  I  could  wish  to  weep  my  life  away 

In  utter  loneliness,  and  never  more 

Hear  human  voice,  or  look  on  human  face. 

ft  is  a  secret  place  among  the  hills : 

Narrow  and  dark  the  valley  lies  below, 

And  not  a  taint  of  earth  is  on  the  air, 

Which  the  lip  drinks  pure  as  the  stream  whose  source 

Is  hidden  here, — large  rocks  have  girthed  it  in ; 

All  palaces  for  the  eagle  are  their  sides, 

Safe  or  far  safer  than  a  sanctuary,— 

For  even  that,  though  shielded  by  God's  name, 

Man  holds  not  sacred.     Here  at  least  his  power 

Is  neither  felt  nor  feared.     The  chamois  rests 

When  harassed,  as  the  powerless  ever  are, 

It  'scapes  the  cruel  hunter.     Small  as  still, 

A  skilful  archer's  bow  would  send  the  shaft 

Across  its  utmost  boundary,  and  half 

Is  covered  with  dark  pines,  which  in  the  spring 

Send  forth  sweet  odours,  even  as  they  felt 

As  parents  do,  rejoicing  o'er  their  children 

In  the  green  promise  of  their  youthful  shoots, 

The  spreading  of  their  fresh  and  fragrant  leaves. 

The  other  part  is  thinly  scattered  o'er 

With  dwarf  oaks,  stinted  both  in  leaves  and  growth. 

And  in  the  midst  there  are  two  stately  firs, 

The  one  dark  in  its  hoary  foliage,  like 

A  warrior  armed  for  battle  ;  but  the  next 

Has  lost  its  leafy  panoply,  the  bark 

Stripped  from  the  trunk,  the  boughs  left  black  and  bare 

By  some  fierce  storm  to  which  it  would  not  bend : — 

Like  a  high  spirit,  proud,  though  desolate. 

At  one  end  is  a  cavern,  musical 

With  falling  waters:  roof,  and  floor,  and  walls 

Are  set  with  sparry  gems,  snow  turned  to  treasure  ; 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  375 

Beyond  is  black  as  night,  or  grief,  or  death, 
And  thence  there  comes  a  silent  stream,  which  takes 
Onward  its  quiet  course,  then,  through  a  break, 
The  only  one  amid  the  mountain,  flows 
Down  to  the  world  below.     And  it  should  be 
My  task  in  fanciful  similitudes 
To  trace  a  likeness  for  my  destiny ; — 
Those  pale  blue  violets,  which  in  despite 
Of  snow,  or  wind,  or  soil,  cling  to  the  rock 
In  lonely  beauty — they  are  like  my  love, 
My  woman's  love  :  it  grew  up  amid  cares 
And  coldness,  yet  still  like  those  flowers  it  lived 
On  in  its  fragrance  ;  but  far  happier  they, 
They  rest  in  their  lone  home's  security, 
While,  rooted  from  its  dear  abode,  my  love 
Was  scattered  suddenly  upon  the  wind, 
To  wither  and  to  die.     And  the  blue  stream 
Will  be  another  emblem  :  cold  and  calm 
It  leaves  its  dwelling  place, — soon  over  rocks, 
Torrents,  like  headlong  passions,  hurry  it — 
Its  waters  lose  their  clearness,  weeds  and  sands 
Choke  it  like  evil  deeds,  and  banks  upraised 
By  human  art,  obstruct  and  turn  its  course, 
Till,  worn  out  by  long  wanderings,  it  seeks 
Its  strength  gone  by,  some  little  quiet  nook 
Where  it  may  waste  its  tired  waves  away. 
So  in  this  solitude,  might  I  depart, 
My  death  unwatched  !     I  could  not  bear  to  die, 
And  yet  see  life  and  love  in  some  dear  eye. 
Why  should  I  wish  to  leave  some  faithful  one 
With  bleeding  heart  to  break  above  my  grave  ? 
Oh,  no, — I  do  but  wish  to  pass  away 
Unloved  and  unremembered ! 
Literary  Gazelle.  L.  E.  L. 


376  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 


LINES 

ON    LEAVING    A    SCENE    IN    BAVARIA. 
BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL,    ESa. 

ADIEU  the  woods  and  water's  side, 

Imperial  Danube's  rich  domain  ! 
Adieu  the  grotto,  wild  and  wide, 

The  rocks  abrupt  and  grassy  plain  ! 

For  pallid  Autumn,  once  again, 
Hath  swelled  each  torrent  of  the  hill, 

Her  clouds  collect,  her  shadows  sail ; 

And  watery  winds  that  sweep  the  vale, 
Grow  loud  and  louder  still. 

But  not  the  storm,  dethroning  fast 
Yon  monarch  oak  of  massy  pile  ; 

Nor  river  roaring  to  the  blast 
Around  its  dark  and  desert  isle  ; 
Nor  curfew  tolling  to  beguile 

The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by, 
Can  sound  in  discord  to  my  soul ! — 
Roll  on,  ye  mighty  waters,  roll ! 

And  rage  thou  darkened  sky ! 

Thy  blossom,  though  no  longer  bright, — 
Thy  withered  woods,  no  longer  green, 

Yet,  Eldun  shore,  with  dark  delight 
I  visit  thy  unlovely  scene  ! 
For  many  a  sunset  hour  serene 

My  steps  have  trod  thy  mellow  dew ; 
When  his  green  light  the  fire-fly  gave} 
When  Cynthia  from  the  distant  wave 

Her  twilight  anchor  drew, 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  377 

And  ploughed  as  with  a  swelling  sail, 

The  billowy  clouds  and  starry  sea ; 
Then,  while  thy  hermit  nightingale 

Sang  on  her  fragrant  apple-tree, — 

Romantic,  solitary,  free, 
The  visitant  of  Eldun's  shore, 

On  such  a  moonlight  mountain  strayed 

As  echoed  to  the  music  made 
By  druid  harps  of  yore. 

Around  thy  savage  hills  of  oak, 

Around  thy  waters  bright  and  blue, 
No  hunter's  horn  the  silence  broke, 

No  dying  shriek  thine  echo  knew ; 

But  safe,  sweet  Eldun  woods,  to  you 
The  wounded  wild  deer  ever  ran, 

Whose  myrtle  bound  their  grassy  cave, 

Whose  very  rocks  a  shelter  gave 
From  blood-pursuing  man. 

Oh  heart  effusions,  that  arose 

From  nightly  wanderings  cherished  here! 
To  him  who  flies  from  many  woes, 

Even  homeless  deserts  can  be  dear ! 

The  last  and  solitary  cheer 
Of  them  that  own  no  earthly  home, 

Say  is  it  not,  ye  banished  race, 

In  such  a  loved  and  lonely  place 
Companionless  to  roam  ? 

Yes !  I  have  loved  thy  wild  abode, 

Unknown,  unploughed,  untrodden  shore, 
Where  scarce  a  woodman  finds  a  road, 

And  scarce  a  fisher  plies  an  oar  ! 

For  man's  neglect  I  love  thee  more, 
That  art  nor  avarice  intrude 

To  tame  thy  torrent's  thunder-shock, 

Or  prune  thy  vintage  of  the  rock 
Magnificently  rude. 


378  THE     POETICAL    ALBUM. 

Unheeded  spreads  thy  blossomed  bud 

Its  milky  bosom  to  the  bee  ; 
Unheeded  falls  along  the  flood 

Thy  desolate  and  aged  tree. 

Forsaken  scene  !  how  like  to  thee 
The  fate  of  unbefriended  worth! 

Like  thine  her  fruit  dishonoured  falls  ; 

Like  thee  in  solitude  she  calls 
A  thousand  treasures  forth. 

0  !  silent  spirit  of  the  place  ! 

If  lingering  with  the  ruined  year, 
Thy  hoary  form  and  awful  face 

I  yet  might  watch  and  worship  here, 
Thy  storm  was  music  to  my  ear ! 
Thy  wildest  walk  a  shelter  given 
Sublimer  thoughts  on  earth  to  find, 
And  share,  with  no  unhallowed  mind, 
The  majesty  of  heaven  ! 

What  though  the  bosom  friends  of  Fate,- 
Prosperity's  unwearied  brood, — 

Thy  consolations  cannot  rate 
O,  self-dependent  solitude  ! 
Yet,  with  a  spirit  unsubdued, 

Though  darkened  by  the  clouds  of  Care, 
To  worship  thy  congenial  gloom, 
Like  pilgrim  to  the  Prophet's  tomb, 

Misfortune  shall  repair. 

On  her  the  world  hath  never  smiled, 
Or  looked  but  with  accusing  eye  ; — 

All  silent  goddess  of  the  wild, 

To  thee  that  misanthrope  shall  fly  ! 
I  hear  her  deep  soliloquy, — 

1  mark  her  proud  but  ravaged  form, 

As  stern  she  wraps  her  mantle  round, 
And  bids,  on  winter's  bleakest  ground, 
Defiance  to  the  storm. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  379 

Peace  to  her  banished  heart,  at  last, 

In  thy  dominions  shall  descend, 
And  strong  as  bcechwood  in  the  blast 

Her  spirit  shall  refuse  to  bend  ; 

Enduring  life  without  a  friend, 
The  world  and  falsehood  left  behind, 

Thy  votary  shall  bear  elate, 

And  triumph  o'er  opposing  Fate 
Her  dark  inspired  mind. 

But  dost  thou,  Folly,  mock  the  muse 

A  wanderer's  mountain  walk  to  sing, 
Who  shuns  a  warring  world,  nor  wooes 

The  vulture  cover  of  its  wing? 

Then  fly,  thou  towering  shivering  thing, 
Back  to  the  fostering  world  beguiled, 

To  waste  in  self-consuming  strife 

The  loveless  brotherhood  of  life, 
Reviling  and  reviled ! 

Away,  thou  lover  of  the  race 

That  hither  chased  yon  weeping  deer  ! 
If  nature's  all  majestic  face 

More  pitiless  than  man's  appear ; 

Or  if  the  wild  winds  seem  more  drear 
Than  man's  cold  charities  below, 

Behold  around  his  peopled  plains, 

Where'er  the  social  savage  reigns 
Exuberance  of  wo ! 

His  art  and  honours  wilt  thou  seek 
Embossed  on  grandeur's  giant  walls  ? 

Or  hear  his  moral  thunders  speak 
Where  senates  light  their  airy  halls, 
Where  man  his  brother  man  enthralls, 

Or  sends  his  whirlwind  warrants  forth, 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  fiends  of  war, 
To  dye  the  blood-warm  waves  afar, 

And  desolate  the  earth. 


380  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

From  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant  man  has  been, 
There  Peace,  the  cherub,  cannot  stay  ; 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  away 

She  builds  her  solitary  bower, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod 
Or  friendless  men  to  worship  God, 

Have  wandered  for  an  hour. 

In  such  a  fair  forsaken  vale, — 

And  such  sweet  Eldun  vale  is  thine, — 

Afflicted  nature  shall  inhale 

Heaven-borrowed  thoughts  and  joys  divine  ; 
No  longer  wish,  no  more  repine 

For  man's  neglect  or  woman's  scorn  ; — 
Then  wed  thee  to  an  exile's  lot, 
For  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not, 

Its  absence  may  be  borne. 


THE  HOUR   GLASS. 

THE  dust  that  here,  with  motion  true, 

In  silence  tells  the  waning  hour, 
Once  glowed  with  vital  heat,  and  knew, 

The  pride  of  honour,  wealth  and  power- 
Was  one,  who  lost  in  pleasure's  maze, 

Relentless  beauty's  charms  admired  ; 
He  saw,  but  withered  in  the  gaze, 

And  in  a  fatal  flame  expired. 
Still  in  this  glass  his  ashes  move, 

Proclaiming  to  each  pining  breast, 
That  he,  who  knows  the  pangs  of  love, 

May  never,  never,  hope  for  rest ! 
New  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE  POETICAL  ALBUM. 


381 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  PELEUS  AND  THETIS. 

BY    BARRY    CORNWALL. 

HIGH  placed  upon  a  hill  of  Thessaly, 

(That  lifts  its  forehead  to  the  clear  blue  skies, 

And  when  the  storms  are  high, 

And,  like  its  diadem,  the  lightning  shines, 

Shakes  in  wild  music  all  its  whispering  pines) 

Sate  twice  ten  thousand  deities. 

Pelion  !  in  song  renowned  and  heathen  story, 

Dost  thou  remember  that  auspicious  day, 

(Marked  in  celestial  history) 

When  gods  and  star-bright  spirits  deigned  to  stray 

Along  thy  rills  and  through  thy  pastures  sweet, 

Or  sporting  on  their  heavenly  pinions  fleet 

Shook  light  and  fragrance  through  the  noontide  air  ?- 

Then  every  god  that  loved  the  nymphs,  was  there 

(The  nymphs,  the  gods'  especial  care) 

And  goddesses  and  spirits  all  of  mighty  name. 

First  sweet  Aurora  in  the  morning  came — 

(For  well  she  loved  the  sea-green  maid, 

Thetis,  who  wont  her  streaming  hair  to  braid, 

Ere  yet  Apollo  dashed  the  shores  with  flame), 

And  over  Pelion's  giant-head  she  threw 

(For  this  was  Thetis'  nuptial  day) 

A  veil  of  roses,  such  as  in  the  Spring 

Burst  into  beauty  'fore  the  sons  of  May, 

And  many  a  flower,  touched  with  the  rainbow's  hue, 

She  cast — such  (though  on  earth  they  fade  away) 

In  heaven  live  ever  blossoming. 

And  this  was  the  coy  Thetis'  nuptial  day — 

The  bridegroom  was  a  man  of  fame, 

(His  line  immortal,  though  from  earth  his  name) 

And  through  a  kingdom  once  held  sceptered  sway — 


382  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

(Thessalian  Pelus) — Twas  a  day  of  state, 
And  all  the  assembled  gods  and  heroes  then 
Came  down  in  mortal  shapes  'mongst  men, 
(Save  one,  the  greatest  of  the  great) 
Those  holy  rites  of  love  to  celebrate. 

Then  came  the  mightiest  on  his  blazing  throne 
Borne  downwards,  buoyant  on  a  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  as  he  passed  each  living  creature  bowed. 
Mountains,  and  woods,  and  waves,  were  forced  to  own 
His  powerful  presence — though  unseen  he  rode, 
And  spared  the  world  the  image  of  a  god — 
Saturnian  Jove  ! — on  Pelian's  topmost  height 
Thou  sat'st  amidst  the  circling  deities, 
Ranked  each  in  order,  for,  as  in  the  skies, 
They  took  their  place  to  view  this  marriage  rite. 

The  Queen  of  heaven  was  there,  her  braids  of  jet 

Clasped  by  a  dazzling  coronet ; 

Her  port  was  majesty — her  look  was  light — 

And  pale  Minerva,  with  her  face  divine, 

And  with  mild  eyes  intelligently  bright — 

And  there  Apollo's  brow  was  seen  to  shine 

'Midst  the  rich  clusters  of  his  golden  hair; 

And  Venus,  with  her  zone  unbound  was  there, 

Upon  a  thymy  hillock  bent ; — 

And  Bacchus,  crowned  with  leaves  of  vine, 

Son  of  the  star-bright  Semele — and  Mars 

And  dark  Bellona  left  their  thundering  cars, 

To  consecrate  a  day  so  sweet  and  fair — 

And  Neptune,  charmed,  had  left  his  element. 

Below,  below — joyous  the  woods  among 

And  fountains — through  the  cool  and  leafy  shade 

Bright  nymphs  and  sylvan  spirits  strayed — 

Some  laughing  chased — some  woke  the  cheerful  song — 

And  some  that  strain  to  melancholy  dear — 

Some  bathed  their  limbs  amidst  the  waters  clear, 

Naiads  and  heaven  born  Nereids, 


THE    POETICAL     ALBUM.  883 

Or  plunged  their  hands  within  some  secret  well, 
And  as  they  flung  on  high  the  sparkling  wave 
Muttered  each  a  soothing  spell. 

Fearless  the  Dryads  left  their  sacred  trees, 

For  well  that  day  did  the  rude  Fauns  behave, 

And  through  the  morn — the  noon — the  evening  hours, 

Some  tore  the  violet  from  its  stem,  [spread  ; 

To   grace  the    sea-maid's  couch  when   night  should 

And  some  inwove  a  diadem, 

Formed  all  of  roses  white,  to  deck  her  head  ;     [flowers. 

Some  plucked  the  golden  fruits,  some  rolled  amongst  the 

Still  some  were  wanting  ;  yet  as  day  declined 

They  came — then  first  was  heard  Favonius'  sigh, 

Wild  whispering  through  the  blossoms,  as  he  pined 

Away,  in  notes  of  fragrant  melody — 

And  Cupid,  who  till  then  had  fluttered  far, 

Blushing  and  fretful  on  the  varying  wing, 

And  wept  to  see  the  Nereids  fear, 

Came  wheeling  round  and  round — near  arid  more  near — 

(As  doves  come  homeward  in  their  narrowing  ring) 

And  loitering  Dian  sent  her  vesper  star 

To  tell  her  coming,  and  to  say,  that  night 

She  nearer  to  the  Earth  would  bend  her  head, 

And  rest  a  moment  on  old  Pelion's  height, 

And  kiss  pale  Thetis  on  her  bridal  bed. 

And  now  the  nymph  was  borne  along 
'Midst  dance  and  festal  song, 
In  spotless  garments,  as  became  a  bride, 
Whilst  Peleus  languished  by  her  side, 
Breathing  in  murmurs  faint  his  fondest  sigh: 
His  helmet  and  his  arms  were  all  laid  by — 
Yet  looked  he,  though  unarmed  he  rode! 
Hero,  and  prince,  and  demi-god! 
His  head  was  laurelled,  and  his  eyes  of  fire 
Fashioned  to  softness  all,  and  looks  of  love: 
Around  his  shoulders  broad  a  robe  he  threw, 
Stained  with  the  murex'  matchless  hue, 


384  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

(This  the  rude  fisher  found,  who  wont  to  rove, 
Seeking  for  bright  shells  through  the  seas  of  Tyre). 

Now  was  the  altar  won, 

And  that  sweet  rite  begun 

Mysterious  that  unites  in  awful  chain 

Hearts  that  none  may  part  again. 

Bright  was  the  flame  and  holy  that  arose, 

(Fed  all  by  flowers  that  once  on  Pelion  grew) 

And  sweet  the  incense  that  ascended  high, 

Fanned  by  Favonius'  sigh. 

(Favonius,  who  at  evening  blows, 

And  stirs  the  laurel  on  Parnassus'  side) : 

Aloft  in  pairs  the  birds  of  Venus  flew, 

And  all  without  a  pang  the  victims  died. 

All  was  propitious.     Soon  amidst  the  throng 
Low  tones  were  heard  increasing,  till  the  tide 
Dilated  in  a  sound  of  war.     That  song 
Through  all  the  caves  on  Pelion's  side 
Burst ;  and  then  (diminished)  died  : — 
Then  breathed  the  flute,  the  bugle  pealed  afar, 
(In  tones  of  music,  but  too  near  to  war) ; 
The  trumpet  poured  its  note,  and  all  was  still — 
Silence  was  heard  o'er  vale  and  hill ; 
When  (from  on  high  descending,  like  a  star 
That  leaves  its  orb  to  watch  o'er  men  below), 
Hymen,  the  god  of  wedded  love  was  seen 
Standing  beside  the  altar  green  ; 
Before  his  feet  the  votive  wreathes  were  flung, 
And  wildly  sweet  the  hymn — his  hymn — by  kneeling 
virgins  sung. 

And  midnight  came,  and  all  the  gods  departed, 

And  nymphs — and  left  the  lovers  to  repose 

On  pillows  of  the  fresh-blown  rose  ; 

The  winds  were  silent,  and  the  waters  played 

No  more — lest  that  they  should  the  sea-green  maid 

Disturb  (no  longer  pale  and  broken-hearted). 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  385 

Love  only  on  the  couch  was  hovering, 

A  couch  that  gods  had  deigned  to  bless, 

Where  each  had  given  some  gift  of  happiness ; 

Love  only  staid,  he  kissed  each  forehead  fair, 

And  nung  narcotic  odours  from  his  wing 

(Sweet  beyond  man's  imagining)  ; 

Then  took  his  flight  upon  the  morning  air : 

Yet  every  night  returned  and  blessed  that  happy  pair ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

WHAT  see'stthou,  silver  crescent  of  the  sky, 
When,  in  thy  growing  beauty,  thou  dost  sail 

Bright,  through  yon  blue  unclouded  canopy, 
And  when,  ere  twilight  gathers  in  the  vale, 

Or  sunny  radiance  leaves  the  mountain's  brow, 

Thy  gentler  beams  their  loveliest  light  bestow  ? 

Thou  see'st  the  village-dance,  where  light  hearts  meet 
Upon  the  village  green,  and  where  the  lute 

Breathes  forth  in  merry  tunes  its  accents  sweet, 
Nor  stops  until  the  tabor's  voice  is  mute, 

And  till  the  dancers  in  their  mirth  forget 

The  jingling  music  of  the  castanet. 

Thou  see'st  the  lover  in  the  twilight  bower, 

When  vow  is  poured  on  vow,  and  eye  meets  eye, 

And  when  the  bliss  of  that  enraptured  hour 
Is  uttered  only  in  the  burning  sigh  ; 

Ah  !  tell  them  not  that  youth  is  on  the  wing, 

Blight  not  the  hopes  of  their  delicious  spring. 

Thou  see'st  the  fisher  loitering  by  the  shore  ;       [wood  ; 

Thou  see'st  the  school-boy  wandering  through  the 
Thou  see'st  the  peasant  by  his  cottage  door  ; 

Thou  see'st  the  poet  in  his  solitude, 
Musing,  perchance,  some  high  heroic  lay — 
Soft  fall  thy  light  where'er  his  footsteps  stray ! 
33 


386  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

But  other  scenes  are  thine,  sweet  star  of  night, 
When,  in  thy  wane,  the  too  victorious  morn 

Steals  from  thee  all  thy  radiance,  and  with  light 
From  orb  more  dazzling  hastens  to  adorn 

This  lower  world  :  Ah  !  then,  fair  planet,  say, 

What  see'stthou,  as  thou  hold'st  thy  heavenly  way  ? 

Thou  see'st  the  traveller,  haply  doomed  to  roam 
In  foreign  lands,  unfriended  and  alone, 

An  exile  from  his  country  and  his  home, 

The  sweets  of  friendship  and  of  Jove  unknown  ; 

Now  round  his  bark  the  whitening  billows  rise, 

And  now  his  path  through  Afric's  desert  lies. 

Thou  see'st  pale  genius  watching  from  afar 
The  first  faint  traces  of  the  wakening  day, 

Or  gazing  sadly  on  yon  fading  star, 

Whose  little  light  fades  not  more  fast  away  : 

Ah  !  'tis  the  vigil  of  the  broken  heart, 

That  fain  would  live,  though  treacherous  hope  depart. 

Thou  see'st  the  mother,  wife,  or  sister  stand, 
By  the  lorn  sick-bed,  where  disease  has  found 

Another  victim,  and  with  icy  hand 

The  joyful  current  of  the  blood  has  bound, 

And  from  the  brow  plucked  off  the  festive  wreath, 

Triumphant  of  the  thorns  that  lurked  beneath. 

Thou  see'st  the  soldier  on  the  tented  field 

Snatching  short  slumber  ere  he  wakes  to  die  ; 

Thou  see'st  the  wretch  whose  senses  never  yield 
To  gentle  sleep,  and  in  whose  dim,  sunk  eye 

Thou  read'st  remorse  and  terror  ; — this  is  he 

Who  finds,  too  late,  that  guilt  is  misery. 

Thou  see'st,  fair  orb,  the  truth  of  human  life, 

Things,  which  will  be,  and  which  have  ever  been  ; 

A  motley  stage,  that  shows  a  constant  strife 
Betwixt  the  tragic  and  the  comic  scene  ; 

Where  now  a  sage,  and  now  a  fool  appears  ; 

To-day  delight  and  smiles,  to-morrow  care  and  tears. 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  387 

STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 

BY.    T.    K.    HERVEY,   ESQ. 

ACROSS  the  waves — away  and  far, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thee; 

I  love  thee  as  men  love  a  star, 

The  brightest  where  a  thousand  are, 

Sadly  and  silently ; 

With  love  unstained  by  hopes  or  fears, 

Too  deep  for  words,  too  pure  for  tears! 

My  heart  is  tutored  not  to  weep  ; 

Calm,  like  the  calm  of  even, 

Where  grief  lies  hushed,  but  not  asleep, 

Hallows  the  hours  I  love  to  keep 

For  only  thee  and  heaven  ; 

Too  far  and  fair  to  aid  the  birth 

Of  thoughts  that  have  a  taint  of  earth  ! 

And  yet  the  days  forever  gone, 

When  thou  wert  as  a  bird, 

Living  'mid  flowers  and  leaves  alone, 

And  singing  in  so  soft  a  tone 

As  I  never  since  have  heard, 

Will  make  me  grieve  that  birds,  and  things 

So  beautiful,  have  ever  wings ! 

And  there  are  hours  in  the  lonely  night, 

When  I  seem  to  hear  thy  calls, 

Faint  as  the  echoes  of  far  delight, 

And  dreamy  and  sad  as  the  sighing  flight 

Of  distant  waterfalls  ; — 

And  then  my  vow  is  hard  to  keep, 

For  it  were  a  joy,  indeed,  to  weep ! 

For  I  feel,  as  men  feel  when  moonlight  falls 

Amid  old  cathedral  aisles ; 

Or  the  wind  plays,  sadly,  along  the  walls 

Of  lonely  and  forsaken  halls, 

That  we  knew  in  their  day  of  smiles  ; 


388  THE     POETICAL,     ALBUM. 

Or  as  one  who  hears,  amid  foreign  flowers, 
A  tune  he  had  learned  in  his  mother's  bowers. 

But  I  may  not,  and  I  dare  not  weep, 

Lest  the  vision  pass  away, 

And  the  vigils  that  1  love  to  keep 

Be  broken  up,  by  the  fevered  sleep 

That  leaves  me — with  the  day — 

Like  one  who  has  travelled  far  to  the  spot 

Where  his  home  should  be — and  finds  it  not ! 

Yet  then,  like  the  incense  of  many  flowers, 

Rise  pleasant  thoughts  to  me  ; 

For  I  know,  from  thy  dwelling  in  eastern  bowers, 

That  thy  spirit  has  come,  in  those  silent  hours, 

To  meet  me  over  the  sea  ; 

And  I  feel,  in  my  soul,  the  fadeless  truth 

Of  her  whom  I  loved  in  early  youth. 

Like  hidden  streams, — whose  quiet  tone 

Is  unheard  in  the  garish  day, 

That  utter  a  music  all  their  own, 

When  the  night-dew  falls,  and  the  lady  moon 

Looks  out  to  hear  them  play, — 

I  knew  not  half  thy  gentle  worth, 

Till  grief  drew  all  its  music  forth. 

We  shall  not  meet  on  earth  again  ! — 

And  I  would  have  it  so  ; 

For,  they  tell  me  that  the  cloud  of  pain 

Has  flung  its  shadow  o'er  thy  brain, 

And  touched  thy  looks  with  wo  ; 

And  I  have  heard  that  storm  and  shower 

Have  dimmed  thy  loveliness,  rny  flower  ! 

I  would  not  look  upon  thy  tears, — 

For  I  have  thee  in  my  heart, 

Just  as  thou  wert,  in  those  blessed  years 

When  we  were,  both,  too  young  for  fears 

That  we  should  ever  part ; 

And  I  would  not  aught  should  mar  the  spell, 

The  picture  nursed  so  long  and  well ! 


THE     POETICAL     ALBUM.  389 

I  love  to  think  on  thee,  as  one 

With  whom  the  strife  is  o'er ; 

And  feel  that  I  am  journeying  on, 

Wasted,  and  weary,  and  alone, 

To  join  thee  on  that  shore 

Where  thou — I  know — wilt  look  for  me, 

And  1,  for  ever,  be  with  thee  ! 


MEMORY. 

BY    W.    LEGGETT,    ESQ. 

When  memory  paints  with  pencil  true 
The  scenes  where  youth  delighted  roved, 

She  throws  o'er  none  so  sweet  a  hue 
As  robes  the  home  of  her  1  loved. 

Each  tree,  each  flower,  that  flourished  there, 
In  former  beauty  seems  to  wave  ; 

I  seem  to  breathe  my  native  air, 

'Mid  friends  who're  sleeping  in  the  grave. 

But  soon  these  shades  of  joy  depart 
And  present  sorrows  start  to  view — 

Memory,  like  Hope,  still  mocks  the  heart 
With  visions  sweet — but  fleeting  too  ! 

But  Faith  points  out  your  radiant  heaven, 
And  bids  the  mourner  not  despair  ; 

Whispering,  "  afflictions  are  but  given, 
"  Like  angel-wings  to  waft  you  there  !" 


33* 


390  THE     POETICAL     ALBUM. 

NAPOLEON  MORIBUNDUS. 

....    Sume  superbiam 
Quesitam  meritis. 

YES  !  bury  me  deep  in  the  infinite  sea, 
Let  my  heart  have  a  limitless  grave — 

For  my  spirit  in  life  was  as  fierce  and  free 
As  the  course  of  the  tempest-wave. 

As  far  from  the  stretch  of  all  earthly  control 
Were  the  fathomless  depths  of  my  mind, 

And  the  ebbs  and  flows  of  my  single  soul 
Were  as  tides  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Then  my  briny  pall  shall  engirdle  the  world, 

As  in  life  did  the  voice  of  my  fame  ; 
And  each  mutinous  billow  that's  sky-ward  curled, 

Shall  seem  to  re-echo  my  name. 

That  name  shall  be  storied  in  records  sublime, 

In  the  uttermost  corners  of  earth  : 
Now  breathed  as  a  curse,  now  a  spell-word  sublime, 

In  the  glorified  land  of  my  birth. 

My  airy  form  on  some  lofty  mast 

In  fire-fraught  clouds  shall  appear, 
And  mix  with  the  shriek  of  the  hurricane  blast 

My  voice  to  the  fancy  of  fear. 

Yes  !  plunge  my  dark  heart  in  the  infinite  sea, 
It  would  burst  from  a  narrower  tomb — 

Shall  less  than  an  ocean  his  sepulchre  be 
Whose  mandate  to  millions  was  doom  ? 


NOTES. 


1.— Page  1. 

Sketches  taken  from  Dover  Castle  during  a  Storm. 

These  beautiful  poems  are  from  the  pen  of  W.  Read, 
Esq.,  the  author  of  "  Rouge  and  Noir,  with  other 
Poems,"  a  volume  of  very  high  promise.  They  were 
originally  published  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  under  the 
signature  of  "Eustace." 

2.— Page  41. 
The  Mossy   Seat. 

This  poem,  the  production  of  D.  M.  Moir,  Esq.,  the 
Delta  of  Black  wood's  Magazine,  is  incorrectly  ascribed 
in  the  body  of  the  work  to  J.  Moir,  Esq.  The  latter 
gentleman  is  no  relation  to  the  author  of  "  The  Legend 
of  Genevieve,"  although  he  has  published  several 
vigorous  translations  from  the  Spanish,  in  an  article 
on  Spanish  Literature  in  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

3.— Page  49. 
Ode  to  France. — Eij  Lord  Byron. 

This  splendid  Ode  had  not  been  transplanted  into 
any  edition  of  Lord  Byron's  works  when  first  printed 
in  this  volume.  It  has  lately  been  included  in  the  edi- 
tion of  the  noble  poet,  published  in  Paris,  by  Galiguani. 


392 


NOTES. 


4.— Page  63. 
To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry. 

This  exquisite  little  poem,  which  appeared  originally 
under  the  signature  of  Zarach,  is  from  the  pen  of  J.  S. 
Clarke,  Esq. 

5.— Page  79. 

My  Brother's  Grave. 

This  touching  poem  was,  if  \ve  mistake  not,  first 
printed  in  a  little  periodical  called  "  The  College  Maga- 
zine." It  was  afterwards  transplanted  into  the  Etonian. 
Its  author,  Mr.,  now  the  Rev.  J.  Moultrie,  has  written 
several  charming  poems  in  the  Etonian,  and  Knight's 
Quarterly  Magazine.  Mr.  Moultrie  is  also  the  author 
of  the  Stanzas  at  page  156. 

6.— Page  87. 
Lord  Byron's  latest  Verses. 

These  lines  have  been  printed  very  incorrectly  in 
most  of  the  periodicals  ;  but  are  here  given  from  an 
autograph  copy  of  Lord  Byron  in  the  possession  of 
John  Bowring,  Esq.  They  were  first  put  in  circula- 
tion by  the  person  who  calls  himself  Major  Parry,  and 
who  has  written  a  book  entitled  "  The  last  Days  of 
Lord  Byron."  Some  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  value 
of  his  version,  from  the  fact,  that  for  the  line — 
Tread  all  reviving  passions  down, 

Is  given 

Tread  these  reviewing  papers  down, 

and  that  Mr.  P.  was  accustomed  to  cite  this  passage  as 
a  proof  that  Lord  Byron's  feelings  on  the  subject  of  the 
press  had  undergone  a  very  sensible  alteration  ! 

7.— Page  90. 
A  Sketch. 

These  lines  of  the  gifted  author  of  the  Improvisa- 
trice,  have  been  published  in  her  earliest  volume, 
"The  Fate  of  Adelaide,  and  other  Poems." 


NOTES.  393 

8.— Page  94. 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. 

This  poem  appeared  originally  in  nn  Irish  (we  be- 
lieve, a  Belfast)  newspaper,  dated  from  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  After  a  good  deal  of  discussion,  they  have 
been  ascribed  to  the  Rev.  John  Wolfe,  on  authority, 
which  scarcely  admits  of  a  question. 

9.— Page  104. 

Jl  Drinking  Song. — By  Lord  Byron. 
This  singularly  original  poem,  which  the  veracious 
Captain  Medwin  tells  us  was  composed  by  Lord  Byron 
one  day  after  dinner,  during  his  sojourn  with  the  noble 
bard,  was  printed  several  years  before  in  a  volume  of 
Translations  from  the  Classics,  by  John  Cam  Hob- 
house,  Esq. ;  as  were  also  the  Stanzas,  pages  216,  224, 
and  334.  Mr.  H.'s  work  transpired  (for  it  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  have  been  published)  in  1809. 

10.— Page  106. 
A  Recollection. 

This  poem  is  improperly  ascribed  to  J.  Moir,  Esq. 
It  is  from  the  pen  of  John  Malcolm,  Esq.,  and  has  been 
included  in  a  volume  of  very  charming  poetry,  entitled 
"  The  Buccaneer,  with  other  Poems." 

11.— Page  114. 

Magdalena. 
By  H.  A.  Driver,  Esq.,  author  of  "  The  Arabs." 

12.— Page  117. 
The  Village  Church. 

Improperly  referre'd  to  a  provincial  newspaper,  but 
extracted  from  the  "  Velvet  Cushion,"  by  the  Rev.  J. 
W.  Cunningham,  of  Harrow. 


394  JNOTES. 

13.— Page  126. 

The  Storm, 

These  splendid  lines  are  ascribed,  I  know  not  upon 
what  authority,  to  B.  W.  Proctor,  Esq.,  better  known 
by  his  alias  of  Barry  Cornwall.  They  would  do  hon- 
our to  any  pen, 

14.— Page  131. 
Mary's  Mount. 

This  sketch  has  been  transplanted  by  its  author  (D. 
M.  Moir,  Esq.)  into  a  volume  entitled  "  The  Legend  of 
Genevieve,  and  other  Poems  ;"  as  have  also  the  grand 
ballad  of  the  Covenanters'  Heather  Bed,  p.  178,  the 
Vision,  p.  192,  Sunset  Thoughts,  p.  221,  Melancholy,  p. 
262,  and  the  Battle  of  Roslin,  p.  307. 

15.— Page  148. 
The  Ground  Swell. 
By  N.  T,  Carrington,  author  of"  Dartmoor." 

16.— Page  153. 

Ballad. 

This  touching  ballad,  from  the  pen  of  the  amiable 
and  tasteful  author  of  "The  Autumnal  Excursion,"  Mr. 
Thomas  Pringle,  was  written  a  short  time  before  his 
departure  from  Teviot-dale  for  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 
It  was  adapted  to  the  fine  old  border  air  of  "  My  good 
Lord  John." 

17.—Page  175. 

Ten  Years  ago. 

This  Poem,  and  Stanzas  written  beneath  a  Picture, 
p,  194,  have  been  appended  to  the  last  editions  of  the 
author's  "  Poetical  Sketches."  When  first  printed  in 
this  volume  they  were  original, 


NOTES.  395 

18.— Page  177. 

Lines  sent  with  an  Hour  Glass. 

By  Miss  M.  J.  Jewsbury,  author  of  "  Phantasmago- 
ria ;  or  Sketches  of  Life  and  Literature."  The  beauti- 
ful Lines  written  by  the  Sea-side,  p.  180,  and  those  On 
Youth,  p.  227,  are  from  the  same  pen. 

20.— Page  182. 
The  Dying  Poet's  Farewell. 

Ascribed,  I  know  not  how  correctly,  to  Horace 
Smith,  Esq. 

21.— Page  203. 
Palmyra. 

By  John  Malcolm,  Esq. ;  as  are  also  The  Passage 
through  the  Desert,  p.  263  ;  and  The  Ship,  p.  283. 

22.— Page  222. 
There  is  a  Tongue  in  every  Leaf. 

This  poem,  the  exquisitely  beautiful  verses  To  a 
Dying  Infant,  at  p.  271,  and  Lines  suggested  by  some 
late  Autumn  Flowers,  at  p.  277,  are  all  from  the  gifted 
pen  of  Miss  Caroline  Bowles,  the  author  of  a  delightful 
little  volume,  entitled  "Solitary  Hours." 


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